


The Mad King's Soul

by EmilysRose



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mating, Sex, Soulmates, healing trauma, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25309486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: Feyre had always been in love with Rhysand, King of the Fae, the Mad King. He was the man who nearly destroyed the world in his rage and grief. Because of King Rhysand, Feyre dreamed of true love. Love that she had begun to give up on as she grew older, and the need for a husband grew stronger.And then Rhysand appears and tells her he's her soulmate. And Feyre realized maybe the old stories can come true - just not in the way she thinks they will.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Isaac Hale, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Marissya vel Serranis (LotFD)/Azriel, past Rhysand/Elysetta Barastani
Comments: 73
Kudos: 134





	1. An Unwanted Preposal

**Author's Note:**

> Little Side Note:
> 
> Thank you for giving this fic a chance. Or, I'm guessing you're giving it a chance if you're here, reading this. It's a fun little project and I'm really glad I can share it with you all.
> 
> I originally had this tagged as a ACoTaR/Lord of the Fading Lands fic. And while it's STILL very heavily influenced by C.L. Wilson's fic - the tag itself felt like it was getting in the way for most readers. After all, why would you want to start a story when you have no idea about the other fandom? But that fandom doesn't seem to exist on this archive, and you don't need to know about Lord of the Fading Lands when you're reading this!
> 
> (If anyone objects and feels that me deleting the tag is dishonest, please let me know and I will remedy it. I want to give credit where it's due, but at the same time I want to share this story with people who are a little bit more reluctant.)
> 
> Okay. So I'm guessing that most people would be familiar with ACoTaR. They might not be so familiar with Lord of the Fading Lands. You don't really need to know about it, though. Hopefully my writing will explain any questions, but just in case I'll write little notes before and after chapters.
> 
> That being said:  
> shei'dalin means healer. Usually always considered a fae woman.
> 
> dahl'reisen is a fae whose lost their soul and has gone all Anakin and turned to the dark side.

"Feyre. You have to go. Someone has to take me."

Feyre didn't take her eyes off the dough she was kneading for tonight's bread. "Why do I have to be the one to take you?" She asked. She flung the dough up before letting it smack down heavily on the flowered countertop. "I thought you said you and your friends were going together, anyway."

Elain frowned as she leaned her elbows on the counter. Feyre looked up long enough to see the way the sunshine made the lashes around her big brown eyes glow golden, before focusing back on her dough. No one could deny Elain to her face. 

"I did plan on going with friends," Elain said, "But they're going with their families. And plus, you love the Fae! I bet you would pick the best spot to see the - the - oh, bother, what is she called again?"

"The _Shei'dalin_." 

Elain snapped her fingers. "Yes. Her. If you took me, you could tell me all the tales."

Feyre dug her heels in a bit deeper. The _shei'dalin_ came to the human world only once a century, and Feyre would only get to see her twice - once as she and her fae procession came into town, and once more as they were leaving. She didn't want to spend that time with her sisters. She didn't want to share that experience with them. Not when they always teased her about her obsession.

"I don't know," Feyre tried again. She was careful to keep her fingers away from the sticky mess, since the few nails she'd torn off in her last nightmare still had a tendency to bleed with pressure. "I might not even want to go."

"Seriously?" Elain's eyes got wider. "But the Fae King is coming!"

Feyre froze. Her breath caught in her throat and her hands sunk into the dough. The Fae King? Rhysand? No - that was impossible. The famed - or was it infamous? -man had disappeared into his own lands after the Magic Wars. He'd been unseen by mortal eyes for over a thousand years. There was no way he would be coming here - 

"Oh, there you go again, with that lovestruck look on your face." Elain laughed. "You'll take us to see him, won't you Feyre?" Her eyes were big, and soulful, and hard to deny.

Feyre searched them for any duplicity. "Where did you hear that?" They say he had been sequestered deep inside fae territory, healing his heart. Other people said he was in a prison so he couldn't try and destroy the world again.

Either way, she couldn't imagine that when he finally broke his self-imposed exile after nearly destroying the world, he would come _here_. To the catalyst for the Magic Wars that had taken away his lover, Elysetta.

"I heard it straight from Tommy Sorris." 

"The town crier?" Tommy Sorris was the son of a local printer, one who sold gossip columns and weekly adventure stories to anyone who could spare a shilling. Most of it was scandalized nonsense, according to Mama, made to terrify and excite but not to inform. Because of that, Feyre was always weary about anything that came from Tommy Sorris's mouth. "You cant be serious, Elain, you know he smells too much of the printer's ink."

To get away from Elain's eyes, Feyre grabbed the dough and placed it into a bowl. She put a damp cloth over it, and placed it on the rising shelf where the sun would heat it. "It's true, I swear it. The Fae King is _coming_ , Feyre." She rounded the corner and poked Feyre's side. "Maybe he's coming because he wants to meet his greatest admirer? After all, you _wuv_ him!" She batted the big fans she called eyelashes and clasped her fists over her chest to mimic a racing heartbeat.

"Stop it." Feyre muttered. 

Elain's grin brightened. "Oh, come on, I'm just teasing you-"

"About what?" Nesta asked, coming into the kitchen.

When they were children, they had been indistinguishable from one another with their brown hair, brown eyes, and doll-like features. Even Mama and Papa had a hard time telling them apart until they spoke. Elain, always the gentler twin, had been most likely to smile rather than frown. And now, as they'd grown into womanhood, that difference had grown. Though they both had the same beautiful features and slim builds, Nesta was somehow sharper and more imperial. Her dresses never had a tear or smudge on it, and her posture never bowed. And Elain, in comparison, never seemed to grow out of her raw delight with the world.

"About how much Feyre loves the Fae King." Elain said, grinning. "How as the market, by the way?"

"Fine." Nesta placed a new book on the table, some racy looking romance, before turning to Feyre. "So you'll do it, then? You'll take us to see the Fae coming into the city?"

"I'm still trying to get her to agree." 

"He's not _really_ coming." Feyre argued. She washed her hands of dough and flower in the sink. Because Rhysand, King of the Fae, coming to Celieria was just too good to be true. 

How many ballads had been written about the Magic Wars? How many had centered around Rhysand? About the three days it had taken for his dark power to rage over the land and kill millions of people because of his beloved Elysetta's death? Feyre couldn't count them all, but she had read every single one she could get her hands on. It was how she had learned to read.

And to see the man himself, a man capable of such love and destruction in the flesh...

Lauriana Archeron came into the kitchen, still working to unfasten the ties of her cloak. There was an excitement in her gaze that Feyre had never seen before. For a second, Feyre wondered if it was true. If Rhysand really was coming to the city. But Lauriana hated magic, fae magic in particular, and would never be so excited about the Mad King coming into the city, would she?

"Mama? What's going on?" Feyre asked. Her mother looked almost _giddy_.

"Oh, Feyre, you won't believe it!" Lauriana nearly jumped into the air as she took Feyre's hands and clasped them to her chest. Her cloak slid to the floor, and with and aggrieved sigh, Nesta bent to pick it up and take it to the coat-rack. "Queen Demetra," Lauriana squeezed Feyre's fingers so tight, all the blood seemed to leave them. "She sent Lady Zillina to commission your father to produce a spice-trade! He's to sail in three months!"

"Mama! That's amazing!" Elain squealed.

"Oh, it is, it is!" Lauriana let Feyre's fingers go to fling her arms around Elain. "Oh, this will be so good for our family!"

They sat down around the table as Lauriana told her story. Lauriana was excited for what it would bring to the family - the prestige of a royal commission for a merchant meant more business, and a higher quality of business too - while Elain daydreamed of what it could bring. "Finer clothes, oh and father could get a new ship, one with a bigger hold. Oh! And dowries! Thomas Mandray is said to propose soon, you know."

No one seemed to notice Feyre stiffening. "Oh, really? What a fine boy. He's been courting Nesta for quite some time."

"Practically forever. Once his family hears about this, I'm sure they'll set an offer. Oh - I'm going to go talk to Nesta about it. I bet she's freaking out!" Elain jumped up from her seat, racing towards the front room where Nesta was probably not freaking out at all, but reading her new book. 

Which left Feyre and her mother alone in the kitchen.

Feyre opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no idea how to bring up Thomas Mandray to her family. Feyre didn't like him, or his five brothers. She didn't like how the Mistress Mandray, and Thomas's many sister-in-laws, always wore heavy dresses even in summer. Or how when the sleeves of those dresses rose up, the bruises appeared.

As a woodcarvers son, Thomas was well off. And handsome, too. And he had been courting Nesta for nearly two years.

In the end, her hesitation made the conversation turn. "Oh, all this talk of Thomas reminds me, dear." Lauriana said. "Isaac is coming over for dinner tonight. Oh, it's all coming together!"

"Isaac?" Isaac Hale, the butcher's son, was a kind enough man. And handsome enough in his own right. The family had always been close with his, so when his wife and child had died in labor, Feyre had been tasked to bring him the family's condolences. "Why would he be coming to dinner?"

Lauriana gave her a deadpan stare. "Don't be daft, dear. I want you to wear your green dress. It makes you look rather pretty."

Somewhere along the way, condolences had shifted into... something more. Drinks and night and wandering hands. It was mindless, a bit of fun that kept them both from loneliness. Feyre hadn't even known her mother was aware they spoke.

Feyre huffed. "Why would I want to look pretty for _Isaac?_ "

Lauriana's brown eyes turned stern and threatened to pin Feyre in place. "You're nineteen now, Feyre. That's long past time to get a husband and start your own family. look at your friends. All of them have been married for years with a child or two on the way!"

"Are you calling me a spinster?" Feyre asked, unable to fight the incredulous look off her face.

Lauriana just kept her level stare. And Feyre realized that this was a conversation she couldn't put off any longer. Lauriana wanted her to wed.

"Clare isn't wed yet." Feyre tried. 

"Yes, Clare isn't wed." Lauriana admitted. The heavy sigh that escaped her made Feyre feel suddenly vulnerable and sad. Feyre didn't look up from the table as a matronly hand undid the practical bun at the nape of her neck, and with practiced hands, started to braid Feyre hair. "But Clare Beddor is your sisters' age, and is not lacking in suitors. She has beauty and wealth. Both of which you lack, dear."

Feyre blinked away the sharp sting of those words. She was well aware that she wasn't pleasant to the eyes. She'd seen her reflection enough to understand that. But it still always hurt to have it told to her, even in the loving, gentle way that Lauriana did.

"You have a fine, kind heart, past all that toughness, Feyre." Lauriana said, her fingers continuing the plait. "And you're a smart head on your shoulders, enough to help any man with his business and household. But those blessings are not often looked for, when a man starts his courtship. He wants beauty. And his parents want wealth. You're lucky that Isaac has been in love with you since childhood and is willing to look past your faults to who you are."

"Isaac is not in love with me." The scoff Feyre had tried to deliver came out as more of a strained exhale.

"Perhaps not." Lauriana agreed. 

"And I don't love Isaac, Mama."

"Feyre." The tone said enough - Feyre had erred in bringing her own feelings into the conversation. Strong hands left Feyre's hair to grab either side of her face. She was forced to look up into her mother's warm, pitying brown eyes. "What does love have to do with anything in this world? Ah, it's my fault, I know. You were such an awkward, ugly duckling. I never tried to push away your delusions of true love and fae mates..."

Feyre refused to cry. Still, the salt stung.

Lauriana's breath ghosted over Feyre's face. The soft wind of it made a tear fall from her lashes and splash warmth onto her face. "Do you think I loved your father when I married him? Do you think is wanted to marry him at all? No. I did it because my parents told me to. Because they saw the opportunity for me to have a good life with him. And the love grew, dear, as it always does with good men. You're lucky, really. At least you know Isaac."

Feyre fought to free her face, but her mother's hands were steadfast. "Life is never certain, Feyre. This is your chance to wed. You must take it."

"Mama-"

"Isaac is not a bad sort." Lauriana said. "And as a butcher, you're children will never lack for food. Trust me when I tell you, there is nothing worse for a parent than hearing a child cry out in hunger. Even if that child is not of your own blood."

Feyre closed her eyes to prevent more tears from falling.

Lauriana very rarely reminded Feyre that the Archerons were not her birth-family, but every time she did, it sent a chilled knife through Feyre's heart. It made her feel hunted. Exposed. 

Fifteen years ago, the Lauriana and Sol Archeron had found her in the Northern forests, a wild, feral toddler. They'd thought she was a changeling at first, some fae-child abandoned in the constant magical skirmishes that existed after the Magic Wars official end. 

From the stories her parents told, Feyre had never understood why they had decided to take the chance of grabbing her. She had been covered in mud and fees, half-starved, diseased, and had fought them for nearly two weeks to escape back into the woods. But despite her behavior, and despite the fact that the Archerons didn't have two pennies to rub together, they had taken care of her regardless. 

Even when she howled like a banshee. Even when she'd bitten them and kicked them and scratched them to get away. Even when the mysterious, violent seizure took her over. Even when Feyre was pronounced demon-cursed. Posessed.

Without them, Feyre would be dead. She would never know what it was like to be held by loving hands. Or the excitement of racing through the streets of Celieria. Or what it was like to hold her baby sisters in her arms. Or the deep, aching feeling she got when she read tales of Rhysand, The Fae King.

Without Feyre, her parents would have never suffered the hardship they'd endured. They never would have had to flee Hartslea. Or worry over their possessed daughter's nightmares. 

So... if marrying Isaac Hale would bring them some measure of happiness - would even pay a fraction of the sacrifice they'd shown for her sake - Feyre would do it. And she would do it quietly.

Feyre sent a silent prayer to the Lord of Light, asking that at least Elain and Nesta would have a different fate and truly fine husbands of their own.

Lauriana seemed to mistake Feyre's silence. "Dear-"

"It's all right, Mama." She grabbed her mother's hands, which were still wrapped around her face. "I understand. I'll even wear the green dress."

Lauriana's expression seemed to crack. Like Elain, all her emotions were displayed in the depths of her brown eyes. And it seemed the Lauriana's heart was breaking, too. "I know he's not the man you've dreamed of-"

"No one is Rhysand but Rhysand." Feyre said. At least she would get to see him in her lifetime. From miles away in a crowd, sure, but Feyre would get to _see_ him. That had been an impossibility until this morning.

"Yes, well." Lauriana huffed and took back her hands, then resumed planting Feyre's hair. "Give Isaac a chance. A real chance. And if another young man from a good family should happen to court you... we will consider him as well."

There was no other suitors. Feyre wasn't Elain, with her many, many devoted and lovestruck puppy-boys following her around. Or Nesta, who had many admirers too shy or intimidated to come up and make a formal proposal. Still, Feyre said, "Yes, Mama."


	2. My Soul Calls Out To You

Feyre stared hard at her own reflection.

She supposed - wearing her best green dress -that she looked pretty enough. Her eyes were a strange mix of blue and grey, a pretty color that a metallic sheen over storm clouds. And her complexion was smooth and blemish free. Her hair, as thick and wild as it was, was a unique blend of gold and brown.

Her coloring as her best features, in her opinion. Otherwise she was on that knife-edge of too-strange and almost-pretty. Her features were good enough, even lovely, by themselves, but placed together on her face, there was something... strange about her. Off-putting. 

Feyre was the first to acknowledge it. And not the only one to notice it. Her cheekbones were too large and too high, crowding her eyes. And her nose was too long and thin. Her mouth was too wide, too plush, outbalancing the smallness of her chin. Couple that with her too tall, lanky-but-muscled body - and she was a colt, stumbling through life with an unfinished beauty.

But in her favorite dress, her hair all plaited up, she was as good as she got.

Isaac wouldn't care, anyway. He'd ever told her she was pretty, but he'd also never complained when their hands began to wander, and their tongues teased out each other's secrets.

Marrying him wouldn't be too bad. Boring, awful, and unsatisfying, yes, but not _too_ bad. Like Mama had said, they would never be wanting for food or money. And he could give her children.

Feyre pressed her dress to the flatness of her stomach, smoothing her hands between her hipbones. What would she look like, round with child? What would it feel like? She could remember holding the twins for the first time, feeling the overwhelming sense of awe and wonder and joy and terror and responsibility as she looked at their scrunched up faces. The moment was seared into Feyre's mind. But what if the babies she held had cold, hard, swirling eyes? What if, when they grew, she began to see a little of her own wild, possessed self in them?

The longing was almost terrible.

Feyre walked quickly away from her image and down the stairs. She nodded to Isaac, who was already at the table, sitting at the head opposite of Sol. The sight of him was familiar and comforting, and she had to look - really look - to see him in a husband sort of light. 

He was handsome, that was for sure. With fine features, sharp cheekbones, and a defined jaw. His golden curls always managed to fall onto his forehead. What she liked best about him though was the fierceness of his eyes, and the uncompromising ambition often shown in them. The frankness of his gaze was probably her favorite thing about him.

"Evening." She came over to him, bending down to kiss his temple. "Glad you could join us, Isaac."

"Aye. Couldn't miss Elain's world-famous cooking for the world." He said, winking at Elain as her head whipped between him and Feyre.

Feyre was just moving to sit beside Lauriana - across from Nesta - when her mother suddenly shot up. "Speaking of food, Elain, dear. Why don't you help me with the final touches. And Nesta, you come too to help. Feyre, sit, sit," She flapped her hand down, then pushed Feyre into the seat. "You look far to nice to ruin your dress in the kitchens. Don't you agree, Isaac?"

"Oh, ah, yes, I suppose." Isaac arched his eyebrows upward. "Though I always thought Feyre looked most in her element whens he was a bit messy. Dirt and four agree with her."

"You're too kind," Feyre drawled, putting her chin on the back of her wrist.

"Come on, girls." Lauriana passed. "Sol?"

Sol looked up from the pipe he was packing. "Hmm? Oh, oh, yes. Coming, right away." He stood too, and put light hands the twins back to get them into the kitchen.

Still, before the door closed, Feyre could hear Elain asking, "What's going on? I thought we couldn't be alone with men-" 

"Really," Feyre muttered, once the door was fully closed. "They aren't sutble at all."

"No. But I don't suppose they need to be." Isaac leaned back in his chair, his hand moving through the waves in his hair only to have it flop back onto his forehead. "So, you're fine with it, then? The marriage?" There was ambition in his eyes again, though she couldn't quite figure out what it was about. He wasn't exactly climbing the social ladder by wedding her.

Feyre had never bothered to ask why he had started this with her. She had just assumed he was lonely, like her. But now, with a legal bond looming over their heads, she had to ask, "Why do you want to do it, Isaac? Why do you want to marry me?"

"Well." He looked towards the ceiling, his neck elongating as his fingers tapped on the table top. "I've always thought you were rather fun. And we're friends. We've always been really good friends. And after Delilah's death... you helped me." He looked at her, then. "I don't know, Feyre. It just seems like the right thing to do."

She wasn't expecting grand declarations of love, but 'the right thing to do' was a little... hurtful. Though Feyre had no right to be hurt - it wasn't as if Isaac had ever led her to believe he wanted her, needed her, or couldn't live without her - it was still there, blending into this yawning ache for _more_.

Only there was no _more_. Not in this life.

Decision made, Feyre pushed from the table and stood. "Alright then. Let's do it." 

He looked a bit startled. "Now?"

"Now. Mark me and we'll be done with it." Marking was a boundary they were always careful not to cross. He had taken her maidenhead, but he had never Marked her. That was a thing of courtships, not casual dating. A marriage thing. 

And now, a thing they would have to share.

Isaacs startled smile was almost endearing, only his eyes were cold and calculating as they traveled the length of her. He stood, grabbed her waist, and gently pushed her back to the wall. It was his favorite way to kiss her, against a wall. He'd lean his weight on her, his mouth ghosting over her own before their tongues tangled. And they kissed now, as his hands roamed.

Feyre leaned back against the wall and took what he gave. Usually, this was fun. She liked kissing and she liked the forbidden act of it all, the fine line between besmirched honor and pleasure was exciting. 

But now there was an obligation to it. A realization that this was going to be... it. The beggings of a marriage. With Isaac. And the ache inside of her grew bigger, large, and more demanding. Almost like a hole that threatened to suck her stomach into her spine.

Isaac's mouth wrapped around her neck and began to suck.

Feyre accepted it, even as the revulsion and sickness threatened to take her under. She felt far, far, far away from her body. Far away from the clever fingers that had started to hike up the skirts of her dress and brush against the inside of her thighs. Distantly, as if she wasn't involved at all, she was aware of her body's response to those fingers, aware of how she was growing wetter, and her body warmer. She was aware of the mouth sucking harder on her throat.

Because a darker emotion was taking her over. Something smoldering, hotter than the fluttering beginnings of arousal. A wild, fierce anger. 

She was angry that she had started something she'd never thought o complete, and never wanted to finish.

* * *

Rhysand

A woman's emotions stabbed into him.

Fear. Outrage. Desperation. A dread so large it was resignation. A longing so acute it was raw hunger.

Rhysand leapt to his feet.

Another wave crashed into him, so acute that it made him stumble as he walked away from the fire he had been sharing with Azriel and the others. The rage of the woman was uninhibited. She wanted bloodshed. She wanted vengeance.

Rhysand knew the feeling so well he ached with it. His own mind demanded the same. 

Without thought, Rhysand flung himself into the air, his wings and back snapping with the effort to keep him adrift in a narrow current with little preparation. He raced towards the source.

She was calling out to him. She was helpless, and Rhysand wasn't there.

His pushed his power in front of him, concentrating it into heat to give him to a higher elevation where the currents were stronger. There, he found himself flying towards Celeirian, about two hundred or so miles away.

But as quickly as the call had come, it disappeared. Rhysand didn't slow, not when his own furry was beating a hard staccato inside his chest. 

He reached out with his mind, trying to find her again, trying to reassure her that he was coming. But he found no connection. Only the worried, anxious calls of the warriors he'd left behind at camp. 

_Rhys_. Azriel's mind was strongest, most demanding as he tugged at the dark power Rhysand was leaking to relieve the pressure of too much power. _What's happened?_

 _She called out to me. She needs me_. There had been such... such hopelessness in her mind. Like the fight was already over, and her anger just hadn't caught up.

 _Who?_ Azriel asked. _Who called out to you, Rhys?_

Rhysand didn't respond. Because it couldn't be true. It was wishful thinking on his part, a trick of the mind. Though the woman was very much real and alive - and in need of him - she couldn't be who he thought she was. _I don't know_. It was the closed answer to the truth he could give his friend without worrying him further, and the closest lie he could give without tearing his own mind apart.

Because one didn't deny the call of a soul. 

Celieria came fuller into view. _But I'm going to find out_. He dipped, banking towards the left to head into the city.

* * *

Feyre

Over dinner, they talked about how the butcher's shop was faring, about Isaac's sisters, about Sol's royal trade agreement and Elain's newest party. When they tried to broach the topic of Thomas Mandary's possible proposal, Nesta quickly cut everyone off with a sharp, imposing glare.

None of them talked about the large, bruise-like Marks on either Feyre or Isaac's necks. But Lauriana was looking rather smug, and Elain was pouting into her soup, and Nesta wouldn't stop glaring. 

And the sick, aching feeling inside of Feyre never went away. Not as she finished her soup. Not as she moved onto the wine-and-cheese, or the finely basted turkey Elain had cooked. 

She wanted to feel betrayed. But she didn't She wanted to hate her parents for asking this of her. But she couldn't. She understood it all too well. But Feyre didn't think she could do it, she didn't think she could marry Isaac Hale-

Suddenly there was a feeling inside of her mind. A dark, sharp, probing sensation. Like a talon or a claw, slowly digging into a soft membrane, trying to hook its way inside. The anger attached to it was rich and unyielding, with a strong sense of purpose. And it was hungry. And fragmented.

Feyre's knife clattered to the table. The bit of turkey she'd been cutting fell off her fork and into lap, grease staining the fine green fabric.

Everyone looked at her. 

"Feyre?" Sol asked, worry radiating in his kind brown eyes as he puffed away at his pipe. "Are you all right, my dear?"

Feyre resisted the urge to touch her head, where a phantom talon had scrapped. The feeling in her mind was totally gone. And telling her family about it would only worry them.

"I-I'm fine, Papa." Feyre said. 

Nesta, over the bit of turkey she had speered on her fork, called Feyre a liar with a simple lift of her eyebrows.

Feyre turned back to her food. 

She did not want to share her madness with her family. She had worked hard to hide it from them. Lauriana had thought the nightmares had stopped. The twins no longer had scratches and bruises from when they held Feyre down during a violent seizure. 

Soon, though, she would be exposed. Isaac would wake next to his wife as she thrashed in a night terror. By then it would be too late-

The horror sunk in.

Isaac was going to be marrying a demon-cursed woman. And he had no idea. But how could she express it to him without breaking the betrothal?

The Mark was done. Though it wasn't binding, it started the beginning of a betrothal, the first step in an agreement between a man and a woman which would result in a contract between families. To break it now would disgrace Sol and ruin his royal trade agreement. His work would suffer and the family would grow poor and hungry. Lauriana's reputation in the Chruch would suffer as well. And Nesta and Elain, who had yet to make their official debut into society, would be slandered by Feyre's reputation.

She couldn't tell him. Not till it was too late. 

Feyre pushed away from the table. The bit of turkey on her lap rolled off and hit the floor. "On second thought, I'm sorry. I-I need to retire early. I'm feeling a bit under the weather."

"Dear?" Lauriana asked. She reached out, touching Feyre's forearm gently. "Are you all right?"

"It's the safron I put in the soup." Elain said. "I forgot it always makes her stomach ache when I was making it."

Feyre shot her sister a thankful look, "I hope you all have a good night."

She left the room, trying not to look like she was rushing until the door swung being her and she was taking the stairs two at a time. She threw off her dress as soon as she was in her room, wishing... wishing she could fix it all somehow. Wishing she could make the entire, complicated mess easier to deal with.

* * *

Feyre

Celieria's main thoroughfare was already crowded by the time Feyre and twins made it at seven bells. It seemed the entire city had come out to see the Fae, and the rumors that the Fae King was among them had turned an eager crowd into an anxious one.

Instead of fighting the crowd, Feyre found a rooftop above a hatter's shop. It had an unobstructed view of Main Street.

"So... your getting married?" Elain asked, once they'd settled.

"Apparently."

"That's..." Elain looked at a loss for words.

Nesta never had that problem. She didn't bother was things like tact. "It's wrong is what it is. You shouldn't be marrying him."

"Like you shouldn't be marrying Thomas Mandray?"

Nesta, who had been looking at main street, slowly turned her head. Her chin was lifted high. "You have a problem with Thomas?"

"You know I have a problem with Thomas." Feyre bit out. "Bruises are much harder to hide than poverty."Nesta had many admirers, maybe not as much as Elain, but there was no shortage of family's contacting theirs to set up a chaperoned date. And Nesta had turned each and every one of them down because they weren't rich enough. Thomas was the only one with a higher status. And the only one Nesta had encouraged.

Nesta's eyes narrowed, her chin lifting higher. "Let me worry about bruises."

"I'll remind you that you've said that when you come home with a black eye." Feyre bit out.

Elain had been looking between them rapidly, her eyes widening with each look. "C'mon. Guys, not today. Not on a _roof_."

They're stared at one another for long, aching seconds before Feyre decided that Elain was right, this wasn't the time for that conversation.

But she couldn't stop herself from one more comment. "My betrothal is already done, but you still have time, Nesta."

Last night, after she'd gone to bed, her parents had put an informal contract down with Isaac. All that was left was to have his parents agree to it and get it notarized. Then they would start the Bride's Blessing, and she would be wed.

Elain sighed. "Both of you need to just find nice men. Kind men-"

Nesta scoffed, as Feyre scrunched up her nose. They shared a look over Elain's head. 

_Kind men?_ They would eat those boys for breakfast if they'd ever dared to come calling. 

Elain tried again. "You'll be miserable with Isaac."

"Elain-"

"She's right." Nesta said. Her face, so regal and hard, somehow turned harder. "You know she's right. So why are you doing this?"

Exhausted, Feyre rubbed at her face. Last night she hadn't been tormented by the usual nightmares. Instead, she'd dreamed of pale violet eyes and a soundless voice calling out to her, trying to sink its talons into her mind.

She'd tossed and turned, trying to fight off the silent all, trying to block out the talons so there was nowhere for them to pierce. It wasn't until saw that she'd finally managed to get some peace. And by then, she had to throw back the covers and get prepared for the day.

"I can't - I can't have this conversation now. "My happiness doesn't matter right now."

Nesta scoffed, and Elain wrapped her arms around Feyre, so she could lay her head on her sister's shoulder.

* * *

Rhysand

As the sun started to rise in the sky, Rhysand returned to the dismantled camp. Azriel tried reaching out to him again, but Rhysand blocked the connection before it could form.

The same way the woman had blocked him out. 

He landed, then paced as the fae around him prepared to enter the human city. And Marissya - the only female in the procession - donned on her heavy, obscuring traditional _shei'dalin_ garments. 

As everyone prepared, Azriel again reached out to him. The concern set Rysand's teeth on edge.

But it had been Azriel who'd helped Rhysand the most, after Elysetta had died. The man had a unique talent of controlling shadows, his power able to splinter his consciousness and place it inside even mundane darkness and make it magical and controllable. And since Rhysand's powers always manifested itself as pure black, Azriel had been the one to control his magic when Rhysand couldn't. Azriel deserved more than to be shut out.

 _She's there. In the city. For a moment last night, I was touching her mind - but I lost her. And she kept hiding from me. All night long, it was like I was chasing a wraith_. The fact that the woman who'd called out to him had hid herself made him furious.

Azriel's curiosity settled some of that anger. _Who, Rhys? Who's in the city?_

Rhysand's hands clenched and unclenched as he paced. _She is_! He snapped. _She! The one!_ At Azriel's confusion, he let it be known. Rhysand told him the one word he was sure to understand, the one word that would explain everything. 

_Mate_.

 _No, it can't be_ -

_It can be nothing else!_

The emotions Rhysand sent down the link had Azriel flinching back. He felt his friend's recognition and felt him reaching out towards his own mate as if in comfort or confirmation. Marissya, who was not used to mental powers, flinched at the onslaught of their emotions.

 _By the Cauldron, Az!_ Marissya was flung back mentally to her own meeting of Azriel, and all of the wildness of having an unclaimed mate. _Never thought I would have to feel this again._

Rhysand quickly shut her out of the mental connection before her memories could flood his mind and make him ache more for something he didn't have. The loss of connection wounded Azriel, who immediately focused on reaching his mate's side.

_I suppose congratulations are in order, Rhys._

Congratulations. Rhys scoffed and broke off the mental bond totally before Azriel and Marissya could find one another.

This did not feel like a cause for celebration. He felt on edge, wound tighter to the precipice of insanity than he had been in a long time. He was losing control over his form, venom pooling in his mouth, his powers leaking off of him in a constant rate to relieve the pressure of too much magic. 

All he knew was that he had to find her. He had to have her.

* * *

Feyre

She caught sight of the Fae King long before the rest of the fae warriors came into sight. He circled high above on bat-like wings, a powerful frame that seemed to leak black smoke from his frame. He was as legend claimed he would be: a strong framed male with incredible power. The strongest magical power the fae had ever seen. 

The fae warriors when they came were almost as beautiful and awe-inspiring. Row after row of impeccably beautiful and deadly looking men, displaying hard-won masculinity and heartbreakingly natural beauty. And they all had swords strapped to their backs and knives bandoliered around their chests.

Even from the roof, the murmurs of wonderment from the crowd was nearly deafening.

At the very center of the formation of fae was a small figure in flowing folds of pure white. The _Shei'dalin_. Marissya. 

And though they were all wonderful and brilliant and amazing, Feyre's eyes never strayed far from the man circling high above.

Elain got up onto her knees to lean closer. "Oh, I can't see her. She's all covered in white - what's that even about?"

"It's a ritual garment. To show her station. She's only supposed to take it off once she meets with the Queens. The act of showing her face is supposed to mark the peace Celieria and Prythian would share while the _shei'dalin_ is here."

"See, this is why I wanted to come with you. You know all the weird stuff." Elain said, leaning further. Her hand slipped against some shingles, and she hissed as it scraped her skin.

"Let me see," Feyre reached for her, and held her hand. "Not too bad."

"It hurts." There were tears in Elain's eyes. "Kiss it to make it better."

"What are you, five?" Nesta scoffed. She was watching the fae with a tight-lipped expression on her face. She had commented about their sheer number before Feyre had gotten distracted with Rhysand. The crowd of warriors looked like an invasion force to her.

"Oh, come off it. You want her kisses too, you just don't ask for it." Elain said, and shoved her palm into Feyre's face.

Feyre leaned forward, and she kissed the boundary of Elain's scrape. A little shock left Feyr'es lips and leapt into Elain's hand, sending her into a fit of giggles. "That tickles! Feyre, you - "

A thunderclap resounded through the sky. Like boulders colliding with one another. Feyre realized as it echoed that it was a roar.

Feyre looked up into the sky. Rhysand had stopped circling the procession below. A procession which had stopped as well, because the warriors were pulling out their blades.

Feyre wrapped her hand around Elain's arm and tried to pull her back from the edge of the roof. She had leaned over the side to call out to some friend she'd seen in the alley below. Feyre handed her off to Nesta, who had already stood, one hand anchored on the metalwork outside of the chimney-

Someting touched Feyre's mind. Something sharp, and greedy, and furious. She shied away from it before it could pierce her mind-

The thunderclap sounded again. And the crowd, which had stilled at the first one, grew wild at the second. Panicked, Feyre pushed Elain towards Nesta, the force making her slide against the shingles.

There was a confusing moment as her feet flew above her head, and she was suddenly falling backwards -

-and into people. Elbows and heads and curses cushioned Feyre's fall. And then she was slammed onto cobblestone. There was a loud scream. And a man's foot was stepping on her fingers, which snapped like hollow little twigs. Another foot slammed into her back and took all the air out that she needed to scream. She felt someone kick the side of her head.

Feyre was going to get crushed to death in a panicked crowd. Because of the Fae King.

She curled in on herself, trying to protect her head and stomach as feet slammed into her every which way. She felt someone try to grab her arm and lift her, but they were pushed and their heavy weight fell on top of her before disappearing into the mass of people.

Then there was screaming. And more panicked kicked. Then a gust of air and the heat of the sun. The feet kicking at her were gone.

Feyre looked up through the shelter of her arms, stunned that she wasn't dead. Most of the people around her had fled the alley. And she understood why as she looked up and saw the massive man swooping down into the sky towards her, wings spread out wide. Wider than the gap between the buildings. He was going to crash into them, going to break the fine membrane of his wings-

At the last second, the wings disappeared. As if they had never been there in the first place.

The man fell down through the air and into the narrow space of the alley. A big, massive man, leaking black smoke, and beautiful - so beautiful. As easily as Feyre would step off from a curb, the man landed on the ground and strolled towards her with long, muscled legs.

He didn't stop till he towered over her. Black hair moved in the windy remnants of his wing's downdraft, indistinguishable from the smoke that leaked off of him. His skin was a honeyed color - without pores, without oil without flaw -and seemed to somehow absorb and reflect light at the same time. It gave an ethereal quality to his beautifully sharp, beautifully sculpted face. 

But it was his eyes, the startling, pale purple of them, that caught her attention.

She had never seen eyes like that in her entire life.

Without a movement, the blackness surrounding him turned into air. And behind that air, the blackness turned into fire. It swirled around them, somehow hot but not scratching, till they were surrounded in a haze of red.

The Fae King. Lord of Ligh preserver her, this was _Rhysand_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a little prior warning here. I'm going for a long fic. I really like these characters and this world and how I'm trying to mesh these two stories together so I'm going to go deep into it. Which means there's gonna be a lot. And it's going to be slow because I don't think the 'love at first sight' really meshes with these characters. It's a great trope, but not for this.


	3. Popped Bubbles and Starry Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, shei'tani means mate. In LoTFD there is a pretty big distinction between 'heartmate' and 'truemate'/'soulmate' but I didn't want it to get that complicated.
> 
> All the fae words come directly for LotFD.

He was terrifying. And beautiful. And he made her more terrified than the stomping crowd had.

With a sobbing gasp, Feyre rolled onto her knees and held her hands up before her. "Don't kill me!" She pleaded. The sight of her mangled and twisted fingers made bile rise up in her throat. Even if she had them set properly, she would be crippled. She'd never paint again.

That was - if she lived. She held them out in front of her, wondering why they didn't hurt as she offered them up as some for protection.

He was Rhysand. The man who had destroyed the world. A man who had more power than any Fae before him. How had Feyre ever seen romance where there should only be horror and fear?

Well, she was feeling horror and fear now. Because there was nothing romantic about the cruel set of Rhysand's perfect features. Nothing kind or human existed in his violet eyes.

His lips pulled back from his teeth, exposing fangs. Like a dog or a world, the skin around his nose bunched, and his ears pressed further back to the sides of his head.

" _Ver reisa ku'chae. Kem surah, shei'tani_." His voice was deep. 

He took a step towards her. A deliberate, ground eating prowl of a step.

"No!" Feyre screamed. "Stay back! Don't come near me!"

He snarled at her. A sound that should _never_ come from a human-like face. It vibrated the air inside the cone of air and fire. His hands curled at his sides - good Gods, were those _claws?_ “ _Ve to do. Ve ku’jian vallar_.”

He ignored her warnings and grabbed her forearm. His hands were huge, massive things, strong and achingly hot. As he touched her, she felt power - more power than her mind could conceivably comprehend - and endless sorrow and sharp longing. And rage. Rage so consuming that it was violent, needful. Like her own, it promised darkness and death and defilement to anything it focused on.

Feyre struggled to free herself, terrified that her own demon-cursed soul would leap out to touch that violent rage. But she only succeeded in moving her broken fingers. Agony knifed up her arm, sharper than his emotions, sharper than his rage and power.

A scream ripped from her throat and she was released quickly. She curled her broken hands into her chest, looking up at him with blurry eyes.

Rhysand stood towering over her, his clawed hands curled back up at his sides. There was madness in his gaze. Insanity.

She had thought she loved this man. She had thought that this creature, this beast in male-form, was… what? Her hero? The undiscovered love of her life, meant to take her away from her mundane troubles and give her passion and happiness of endless days? Gods, she was a fool. A stupid, childishly naïve fool. Her mother was right - Feyre should have grown up a long, long time ago.

Rhysand barked out something in his language, and then the Truthspeaker was suddenly there, coming through a doorway made in the cyclone. She stepped through it as fast as it appeared, and close at her heels was a male warrior with wings folded along his back. The second they were in the cyclone of fire, the doorway sealed behind them.

It was all quicker than Feyre could comprehend. So quick she hadn't even had time to think about running, much less force her battered body up.

Now she was stuck in a swirl of magic with the _Shei'dalin_ , a male warrior, and a creature of lore and insanity.

It was absurd. All of this was absurd. No one just _met_ the Fae. And here they were, three greet from her, glaring at one another over her head.

All of them were tall. And surprisingly, it was the _shei'dalin_ who was the tallest. Despite being swaddled in layer after layer of white cloth, there was a thin, delicate nature to her figure. And the man beside her, despite being tall and narrow as well, had a corded elegance about him. A whisper of black shadow wrapped around his ear, and then his hazel eyes were snapping towards her. She didn't like how searching his gaze was, how knowing. It was as if he could see into her mind.

Rhysand said something. Feyre looked to see he was glaring at the man.

The _Shei'dalin_ came closer, moving in the bolts of fabric that somehow didn't encumber her grace. There was something calm about her. Peaceful. Enough that Feyre blurted out, "You look like a giant white blob."

The Truthspeaker stilled. Behind her, the man tilted his head and studied Feyre like she was a bug. And Rhysand - startling her with the pure force of it - threw back his head and roared.

Not an angry roar. Not a simple one. But a movement of vibration. Dear Lord of Light - was that a _laugh?_

The Truthspeaker moved again. She crouched before Feyre, and a long, impossibly white, slender hand found its way out of the fabric to reach for Feyre's broken ones. The touch wasn't painful, but Feyre could feel the magic seeping out of the woman's skin and into Feyre's at the contact. Warmth concentrated in Feyre's bones. And the pain just... evaporated into a tickling sensation.

Within moments Feyre's fingers were straight and normal. She drew them out of the Truthspeaker's gentle touch to flex them. Her nails were even back, smooth and healthy without a bruise to show how she'd ripped them off. The old tendon pain in her right hand - from her falling out of a tree as a child - was even gone. A decade-old pain, just gone.

Healing magic. She'd heard of it but never thought she'd experience it. Just like she'd never thought she'd get within a stones throw of a fae.

Suspicion filled her. She looked at the robed figure crouching next to her, to the furious one hovering above her. Why would they heal her with it was obvious Rhysand was seconds away from separating her head from her body?

" _Eva Telah, cor la v'ali, Freyreisa._ " The _Shei'dalin's_ voice was musical and gentle. And absolutely incomprehensible. The language of the Fae apparently sounded nothing like it was written.

"I don't understand you."

The woman looked behind her to the man with wings, before facing Feyre again. "You don't speak the Fae tongue?" She asked, in that same soft, wonderful voice. 

"No." Why would that even be in question? Feyre had never met a single person who _could_ speak Fae, not after a thousand years of seperatism. "I read it well enough," Feyre offered, eyes going back to Rhysand, who'd grown stiff.

"You are Celierian?" The woman asked.

"Is that a trick question?" Feyre felt like they were crowding her. She tried scooting backward, remembering at the last minute that there was some very real fire surrounding her. But there seemed to be a hard, moving wall of air that buffered them from the sting. "Am I supposed to lie and say, wait, no, you passed Celiera two leagues ago and your in Mistwave now?" Did Feyre _look_ like one of the Elves?

The woman grabbed the bottom of her veils and swept them up with an elegant sweep of her land. Behind her, the man made a soft sound but didn't protest or get any closer.

But Feyre's focus was on the woman in front of her. Who was... beautiful. As pale as her white roles, she seemed all but bleached of color. But it amplified the streaming gold that fell around her face and back, and the deep, deep green of her eyes. Somehow, every line of her, every curve, expression a deep well of compassion.

"Be at peace, little sister." She said, her fingers against rising to touch Feyre's hand. "Of all people, you shouldn't fear us."

Feyre peeked up again at Rhysand's glowering face.

She truly doubted that.

* * *

Rhysand

He was jealous of Marissya. Jealous of the hand placed on the girl's flesh. He wanted to slap her away and replace that hand with his own.

 _Hold your temper, Rhys_. Azriel's mind was sharp. _She's terrified_.

Terrified. Of _him_. 

Rhysand could remember the way she had been curled up on herself. Such a small figure, so easily harmed. How the pain had leaked out of her. She hadn't been all that scared then. But because he was here - she was.

His mate was scared of him.

Frustrated, he pushed Marissya away with a bit of power to separate the contact of flesh on flesh. And then he shut them out of the fire-barrier, leaving him alone with the Celierian girl.

She made a sound, a soft hitching of breath born out of fear that made Rhysand's jaw ache from how hard he was clenching it. He would tear the heart out of anyone who frightened and displeased her - but there was no one there but him. And he would not, could not, leaver her right now. Even if he was the problem.

It took Rhysand several moments to push back the fury and shove it into a corner of his mind where it would fester. Still, the sight of her terror rapid at his santiy, breaking away all the careful, controlled layers he'd built up to keep his mind intact.

"Come here," He held out his hand, trying to gentle his voice for her. He wasn't sure it was working. "I could never harm you, _shei'tani."_ His Celierian was rusty - the sounds and tones of it unfamilar - but he could see she understood him well enough. It was unfortunate that his ability to appear non-threatening was equally out of practice. 

He could remember he used to be rather charming. And he had been gentle for Elysetta. Any sign of aggression had terrified his kindhearted lover. 

Rhysand tried to recall what he'd done for her in the moment where her fear had spiked. But it was hard, harder than it should have been, to recall those old memories. All he could focus on was the strange quality of the girl's eyes, and how they were somehow both blue and grey at the same time, like stormclouds. Or feathers. Or blue-polished steel. 

They were the eyes he had seen in the Cauldron. Not kind eyes. But wicked ones, confrontational and determined. They stared up at him, arresting his attention. But he wasn't wrong. This was the girl he had seen in the Cauldron since he was a child - same gold-brown hair. Same oddset, exotic features. Not beautiful, per se, but somehow sensual. Fierce.

Rhysand should start from the beginning. Start as if he had found her calmly on the street, instead of curled up into a ball and almost trampled. What did strangers do, when they met each other? It had been a long time since he had seen a new face, met a new soul, that he couldn't really remember. "I -" Introductions. Yes, that was it. "I'm Rhysand."

"I know." Her voice was low and husky. Her strange, piercing eyes accused him of his misdeeds. Turned his anger into shame. "You destroyed the world once. Nearly killed every living creature on this continent. It's all in the history books." 

Old pain slammed into his heart, and for a second, he could almost hear the tormented souls he’d murdered in his blind rage. He held it back, but not before the girl’s fears spiked. “That was a very long time ago,” He tried to reassure her. He also tried to smile, but it was like his muscles had forgotten how to form one. “I promise you are safe with me.” He moved his fingers, beckoning her to grab them - to touch him - and only managed to draw her gaze to his waiting hand. “Come. Give me your hand.”

He needed her to touch him. Needed it like he needed the breath he was holding in his chest.

Her brows drew together in suspicion. And her strange eyes snapped up to meet his gaze. He was proud that, despite her obvious fear, that she didn't flinch from his gaze. Not even his own people could do that. But it made sense. She belonged him. And something in her, despite her mistrust, recognized that he belonged to her.

She was his mate. His equal in everything.

How his mate happened to be a human mortal with a dangerously short lifespan, he had no idea. But she had powers, he'd felt them when he'd flown above the city. Some sort of healing spell not unlike a _shei'dalin's_ weave. 

Which was impossible, because humans who had magic were dark, twisted, unnatural creatures. Hybern Mages had the sort of souls that leaked bile and sludge. Yet hers shone brightly. 

All of it was impossible. Rhysand was not supposed to be allowed a mate. 

Yet here she was. Human. Magical.

And she couldn't be denied. She was his _shei'tani_. Her soul had called out, and his soul already belonged to her.

"Come on," He urged again. "Give me your hand. Please." He was not a patient man. And he had never begged honestly before. But his body was straining against the efforts of lunging at her just to feel her touch. And he didn't think she'd appreciate it if he broke and did just that. 

* * *

Feyre

She had no idea what was going on. He stood there, stiff and cruel-faced, seeming seconds away from lunging at her and breaking her neck, and yet he was trying to... smile?

It was a very painful looking effort.

And yet somehow, the state of his broken smile made her feel at ease. Maybe even a kindship. She couldn't remember the last time she had smiled. 

So she reached up, her fingers sliding into his callused, hot palm.

The second their skin touch she felt - she didn't know what she felt. It was hot, a thrumming beat of passion, but also somehow comforting. It ached like longing, but it was incomplete. But she could see it echoed in Rhysand's lavender eyes as that nameless emotion took away the raw, furious madness in his eyes. 

He seemed weary of her. 

And she felt weary of him.

They stood there, holding hands, as he said, _"Ver reisa ku'chae. Kem surah, shei'tani_." 

"What does that mean?" She felt like she might have read it somewhere.

Rhysand hesitated, his fingers gripping hers a bit more tightly. His hesitation made her more confused. He didn't seem like the kind of man who hesitated. 

His violet eyes moved across her face, scanning her features. She wondered what he thought of her.

He asked, "Who are you?"

"Feyre." She said. Littel bit of light was appearing in his violet eyes. Like stars, almost. "Feyre Archeron. Merchant's daughter. Painter. Sister."

"Feyre." He murmured. She liked the way his accent wrapped around the word and made it exotic. "Feyre. I've seen your reflection in the Cauldron."

The Cauldron. Feyre knew what it was. It was the Fae's version of a God, creation story, and nexus of power. It was said that the Cauldron had tipped and poured the world out, and everything from magic to life came from it.

"Okay."

" _Ver reisa ku'chae. Kern surah, shei'tani_. You souls calls out, mine answers, mate."

Oh - _oh._

Now she recognized the words. Those were the words the Fae spoke to their mates. The other half of their souls. 

* * *

Rhysand

He was a little relieved to see that she had no idea what to do either. They stood together, her hand somehow connecting him to the world in a way it had never connected before. He could feel something heavy inside his chest, wrapped around his ribs and gently humming.

He wasn't supposed to feel that soul-bond. He wasn't supposed to have a mate.

It was the price of his power, one he had been forced to accept two millennia ago when his father told him of the cost of Rhysand's birth. 

Fae children were rare, even before the Blithe. But the lack of children had hit his parents worse than most. So they had gone to the Cauldron for help, asking it what to do. Rhysand's mother had said she would take any price, accept any fate. And the Cauldron had accepted, it's mists floating out of the sides where Rhysand's parents laid together. Rhysand had been born one hour later, a fully grown half breed whose powers were greater than any fully fledge Fae before him.

He was born from the Cauldron, as much as he had been born from his parents. His inorganic soul didn't have a mate, another half. And he had accepted that fact a long time ago.

Because, perhaps, once the ennui of loneliness set in, he had met Elysetta. She had been kind enough to join her life with his despite waiting for her own mate, and knowing their souls could never follow their hearts. And after centuries of love and devotion and loyalty he'd learned to forget that they weren't mates.

But then she'd died. And he hadn't followed. If she had been his mate, he would have died with her in the Magic Wars. Never to blacken his soul with a million deaths and make him tease that line between fae and _dahl'reisen_. And he would never have to live without her, wishing for an honor-death every day that he woke and every night that he slept.

If Elysetta had been his mate, he never would have met this strange, wary, oddly powerful human woman who claimed him with one quick, furious mental roar. 

Rhysand hadn't known what he was missing. But now he did. And he hated it.

He didn't want this.

* * *

Feyre

"Right." She said. "Right."

She would go with it, for now. Mostly because denying it -screaming out that it couldn't be true - seemed... as terrifying as admitting this could all be real. 

She took back her hand. He didn't seem to want to let it go, but eventually, he did. They stood a handspan apart. "My sisters - I need to get back to them."

Something happened. She felt it, rather than saw any evidence of it. A shifting of the blackness that leaked off his frame to dance with the light of the fire around them. A sense of reaching. And then his eyes focused back on hers. "The girls are safe." 

How could he know that? "Let me see them." 

His hands came up faster than she could perceive them, and with a gentle care, his callused palms held her face. "Stay close to me, Feyre Archeron." he waited, holding her with a gut turning intimacy, until she agreed. 

Then the walls disappeared, and the loud sounds of a crowd echoed in Feyre's ears. She couldn't see them - Rhysand hadn't let go of her face - but she could hear them. Tension filled his violet eyes and made the star inside them disappear as he looked over Feyre's head. "They are safe, as I said they were." She tried to pry his hands away at the wrist.

His sharp eyes looked down at her. "Don't leave." And then he let her go.

For a weird, tense moment, she wanted his hands back. He was terrifying and oddly insane, and joyless. But the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, made her feel indescribably wonderful and wanted.

But instead, she turned and found her sisters.

Elain was crying, her face pink with the strain. And Nesta was holding her as she stared with an odd sort of intensity at a tall, broad shoulder warrior with wing held at his back. Though he looked similar to the man who'd been with the _shei'dalin_ , he was bulkier and more roughhewn. A brother, maybe. 

And they were fine. Not a scratch or a smudge on them. 

"Nesta! Elain!" Feyre ran froward, and Elain slammed into her. Her screaming cries turned into painful hiccups as Nesta made her way more calmly towards Feyre.

"What's going on?" Nesta demanded.

"Why did the Fae King attack you and put you in a fire cage?" Elain wailed, shoving her face harder into Feyre's chest. Her little arms seemed to want to squeeze Feyre in two.

"He's... taken a liking to me."

"You can't be serious," Nesta muttered.

"I told you, your his number one fan. Of course, he'll love you." Elain hiccuped again. "Now you won't have to mary Isaac. And you and your dream hubby can live happily ever after!"

Feyre looked over her shoulder at Rhysand. He had been joined by the first winged-warrior, and the _shei'dalin_ , and they were all watching Feyre and her sisters with an eerie sort of stillness.

"Yeah, I don't think life works like that." Feyre said, before turning to Nesta. "What happened with you guys?"

* * *

Rhysand

He watched the reunion, and what it produced.

Love. A literal weaving of love. As if love could somehow be made into magic. It fell between the three girls like a shrowd of some kind, light, but not made of light, fragrant, but without a smell. A feeling. Warm and strong.

Next to him, Marissya was shaking. "How is that possible. Az, how can anyone..." She reached for Az as he reached for her, and they held one another easily in the small crook Azriel made with his left-wing. "Who is this girl, Rhysand?"

He didn't know. And yet, the tugging in his chest told him all he needed to know. 

Rhysand looked away from the sight of his mate bestowing her love on the two girl-children. As if turning away from it could make him ignore the powerful feeling in the air. As if it could make him stop wanting the shocking brightness of Feyre Archeron's glowing soul.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want the responsibility of her safety or her happiness. It was just another burden, thinning the already frayed barriers of his sanity.

But he was the King of the Fae. A concept - a title - that had never existed before him and was likely to never exist again once he was finally dead. His powers, more boon than gift, were bestowed on him by the Cauldron. He was responsible for the continuation and safety of his people. He had to end the Blithe that was killing Fae magic. He had to find the Cauldron again and return it home, and stopped the cursed Blithe. 

Which meant it was his duty to fight when he would rather be free, and to choose duty when he would rather beg for death. To mate when he would rather be alone with a memory.

Yet Feyre Archeron's soul called out to him. And inside of him, that feeling he had never known he was missing sang a gentle pulse, which seemed to perfectly echo the love shining between the three sisters behind him.

 _Calm down_ , Azriel warned.

 _I am calm!_ He was not calm. He was shifting again, losing control.

 _Rhys_. Azriel's mental voice was both annoyed and pitying. _Stop trying to fight it. Feel whatever you feel. Let yourself experience her._

Rhys waved him off. 

_It's not safe here, is_ all. Celieria had never been safe. The Hybern could be anywhere, watching his mate, gathering in the crowds of mortals, thinking of ways to take her from him. _She needs to return with me to Prythian while you two stay for the trade-agreement. The courtship will take place at home_.

He had come here to stop the Celierian agreement with Hybern - a mistake that humans, with their short lifespans and their shorter memories - were bound to make. They wanted Hybern chocolate and tobacco, and better prices on spells and spices. They didn't remember how quickly and seductively the Hybern's twisted magic could seep into the world. And how one never saw their knife till it was lodged in one's back. 

But he would forgo that for his mate. No doubt, Marissya and Azriel would do a better job of convincing the Celierian Queen's not to touch Hybern's borders than he could. 

_You can't_. Azriel said. _You'll be abducting her. She has parents. A family. A life. Do you think she'll accept you if you take her from them all without warning?_

 _Her family can come to_. Rhysand challenged. He would get an endless amount of grief from the High Lords, but it was the only solution he could think of that would satisfy everyone. _They can remain until we are bonded and then leave_.

 _She will never accept you if you_ -

The idea of Feyre Archeron denying him, of leaving him, made a raw wound inside of his chest leak. His sanity became thinner. _She will accept me!_ She had to. Not because he would die if she didn't - which was the fate of any denied mate - but because the idea of being denied her made him rage.

 _Don't be so sure you know a woman's heart_. Azriel warned. _She is young, and mortal, but she will never be your mate if she were not as equally stubborn as you are_. Accompanied with the thought was a trailing half-thought, a worry that Azriel hardly seemed to notice. But Rhysand did. _And if she were not as insane as you are_.

Rhysand focused on the thoughts Azriel had meant to share. _I don't need her heart. I need her soul. Nothing more. She will-_

"You gamble with the lives of our people," Azriel warned. "We can't afford to risk losing you any more than we can afford to risk a Queen."

"She could heal the Blithe." Marissya agreed, her soft voice filled with wonder as she focused on the three girls. "And you, Rhysand."

Yes, the girl - even if she was mortal - with such compelling, raw talent for magic could undoubtedly heal his shattered mind. He should have turned _dahl'reisen_ because of the Magic Wars, but because of his strange conception, he was denied that. Instead of losing his soul, he just lost his mind. Became unfocused, emotion, unable to filter out the thoughts of others, unable to control his own magic. But a mate could fix that.

But Rhysand didn't want her to.

Damn the Cauldron for throwing this at him.

"King Rhysand." Feyre's husky, irreverent voice floated over to him. He turned to see her standing, with the two girls by her side.

Her fear had, mostly, evaporated. A proud, protective air came off her now.

His body seemed to beg to go over to her. To hold her again him. To kiss her mouth and see what she tasted like.

"King Rhysand." She repeated, a bit of a temper leaking into her voice. "It's late. My sisters and I need to return home-"

Did she think to leave him? "No."

"Excuse me?"

He faced her fully. "I said no."

"What Rhysand means is that you are more than welcome to walk with us to the castle," Marissya said, stepping forward. "I would be honored if you would join me."

 _At this rate, you'll drive her away before you can even begin to court her._ Azriel said.

Mistrust filled Feyre's face. "I am a lowly merchant's daughter." And yet as she said this, her chest puffed out, her spine straightening so her posture was almost as erect and prideful as the girl standing by her side. "I am not welcome in the castle-"

"You're my mate," Rhysand said. He was gratified when her attention landed on him again, and his voice came out in a low purr to encourage her, "You are a Feyreisa. Queen."

One of the girl's beside Feyre gasped - the pretty one with the round features - and started to tug on the erect one's skirt. 

"So, if you happened to look upon a swine and declare it a queen, it would magically become one?" Feyre asked.

A shocking burst of his own joy made him laugh again. That was twice now, in a single day, when he hadn't laughed in over a thousand years. It felt good. "Did you just compare yourself to a pig?"

A pretty red blush swam on her cheeks. “I did. What of it?”

He moved towards her, ignoring how the twins on either side were quickly pushed back behind her frame. Rhysand couldn’t resist touching her anymore. And he did, finding the strange, velvety nature of her skin alluring, as alluring as her rich, spiced smell and the unconscious melting of her body as he grabbed her face.

“If I called a pig a queen, then yes, that pig would be queen.” He liked the amused delight that jolted through her body and into his mind. He liked the wicked tilt of the smile he could see in her gently uptilted eyes. She had a very generous mouth, thicker at the top than the bottom. Stroking her cheek, he crooned at her some more, liking the effect it seemed to have on her body.

“I’d shower that pig with pearls and diamonds and challenge anyone who threatened to suggest that my decision was wrong. And if you think I’d let a bunch of mortals who claim sovereignty the same way a pig would claim sovereignty through breeding, question me? Then you do not know me.”

“Your right.” She murmured, temper gone. There was a new kind of heat in her eyes, a heat that he could feel as he touched her skin, searing across his frayed nerves and making his own hunger build inside of him. “I don’t know you.”

“So get to know me.” The challenge did wonderful things to her bright, shining soul. “Your sisters will go home, and you will stay with me.”

“No.”

The slow, turning hunger for her velvet-soft flesh, for her small body, melted in an instant. He felt his hands tighten around her head, and he shifted them back to slide into her gold-threaded hair. He did not want to hurt her by squeezing her head, but he could squeeze the soft hair all he wanted. “My warriors will protect them. You will stay.” He snapped.

Her jaw clenched so hard he could feel the molars grinding, even with his hands in her hair, holding her still, holding her to him. “I will not.”

She was his mate! She would not leave him—never. He would break this cursed-strong spirit before he allowed her to walk away. “You will.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!” She screamed it in his face.

“Yes!” He screamed back, his voice much larger, much deeper, much more powerful than hers. It broke from his chest and he amplified it with his magic. 

His warriors tensed from the sound. And the crowd of mortals all cried out in fear from the power of it. But Feyre Archeron did not flinch or ower. Her nostrils flared, and her jaw clenched harder.

 _Rhys!_ Azriel snapped. _You must stop right now! This is your madness talking. She will be safe returning to her home. She is not leaving you and she is not rejecting the bond. Think, Rhys! Stop feeling and just think!_ Azriel tired to push calm into Rhysand's mind.

Apparently, so could Feyre. Fear entered her eyes once more, and she used him—his mind, his powers—to push away Azriel's calming emotions. She shoved it so solidly out of his mind that he felt his achingly thin barriers of sanity snap.

Her power—her soul—was golden and fierce and he would have it!

Fear. Fear and confusion and horror assaulted him from the inside out. Her fear. Her pain.

He was hurting her. Tugging on her hair tightly. He was snarling in her face like an animal and wasn't even aware of it until this second.

He was hurting her.

Rhysand's mental barriers snapped back into place, more solid than they had been in over a thousand years. It was so peaceful that he swayed, clinging to his mate, his lifeline, with every fiber of his soul and being. Her rapid breaths panted against his cheek, and he put his head down into the crook of her neck, to feel her heartbeat fluttering there against his lips. And for a second that was blissful, he felt, for the first time, _sane_.

It was sobering. To be released from his rage and anguish. And with the peace came clarity.

Azriel was right. This was no way to win her.

If she insisted on going home, he would send Cassian with her. His general could take whoever he wanted out of the two thousand they had brought with them. The distance would hopefully give Feyre time to come to terms with him. 

He would court her here, but they would have to finish in Prythian, where she would be safest. He would give her gifts - pearls and diamonds, perhaps, wrapped around a pig's foot? - and show her the gift of flying. He would earn her trust, and then show her the pleasures he could give her body.

The idea of it had his tongue moving out between his lips, and he tasted her neck. She was delicious, naturally spicy, and a bit salty from her sweat. Her body, a lithe, compactly athletic frame, shuddered as lust curled against his mental senses.

Maybe he would show her pleasure, fist. If she was anything like him, her mind, body, and instincts were all intertwined. There was no way he could have her body without her trust, but no way to have her soul without winning over her body.

The idea of being inside of her had him tasting her again. His teeth scraping against her flesh moments later. Her breasts pushed more fully against his chest as she leaned into him, her spine curving. Her hands came up, grabbing his arms, as if to steady herself.

Her responsiveness made him ache more, and he had a sudden desire to take her here in the streets. To roar in his triumph as everyone - his people, her people - watched him claim her. He would lift up her skirts, and wrap her thick thighs around his waist as he pushed into her, her back arching, her breasts pushing up against him, their breath mingling—

Soon. Not now, where she was vulnerable and in danger. But _soon_.

“Mmm.” He hummed against the now-wet flesh he’d been sucking on. And he bit it, gently, just to feel her hands tightening on his biceps. “ _I'd say that I'm sorry, that I'm not myself at the moment, but that would be a lie_.” He told her this in Elvish, not wanting to frighten her anymore.

Celierian’s were mortal. And soul-bonding would be unfamiliar to her. If he pushed too hard, too fast, she would run from him.

No, he had to be careful with her. Trust, first. After, when she no longer thought to fear him, he would enter her yielding body and delight in her warmth, her wet heat. And he would see if she was as wild in bed as she seemed. The thought of her straddling him, her long gold-brown hair tumbling around her as she used his body for her own pleasure—

Not now. But _soon_.

Rhysand pulled away reluctantly, looking down at her half-mast, blue-gay eyes. His lust - her lust - it echoed back and forth between the two of them, heightening with each and every moment they touched.

He had to be careful about this hunt. He had to take his time. Ease her into it, so she didn’t know she was his prey.

* * *

Ianthe

Rhysand, King of Fae, had a mate.

A mate with blue-gray eyes and gold-brown hair, like the child who'd been stolen from her Mistress, High Mage of Hybern more than a decade ago.

Her Mistresses needed to be informed. And the girl needed to be watched.

Ianthe made a quick work of it, sending an order to the two orphans who'd freely given their souls for food and shelter. It took only a moment, and Ianthe watches with eager eyes as they followed the High Mage's stolen child and her Fae guards through the crowded city street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt like Azriel needed a good mate. He kind of got the shit-stick in ACoTaR.
> 
> Also, for clarification, Elain and Nesta are about six years younger than Feyre. 13 or so.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	4. Burdens of Expectation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your positive responses and your comments! It means a lot to me! Thank you thank you for your support!

To say the streets were in an uproar would be an understatement.

Nesta stayed close to Feyre's side, nearly hugging her as they walked back home. But her eyes kept shifting towards the tall, imposing, winged Fae who walked in front of them. Rhysand had introduced him as Cassian. The inventive general who had won the fae most of their battles in the Magic Wars. In the stories, Cassian was handsome and had a good humor. There were depictions of him looking at an impossible-seeming battle with a challenging grin on his face.

This was not that man. Though he looked to be in his thirties, there was a dark, fathomless quality to his hazel eyes that made Feyre ache. Something about him, when he spoke, or when he looked towards her, made her feel terribly sad.

So she tried to avoid him, and helped block Nesta with her body as they walked home.

As soon as they came in sight of the doorway, they saw Lauriana standing there, arms crossed, a thunderous look on her broad and pretty face. Obviously, she'd heard the news.

"Ooh, someone is in _trouble_." Elain sing-songed, hopping ahead of the red-headed fae warrior she had been talking to.

"Shut it." Feyre muttered.

"She's right. I haven't seen Mama this mad since she caught you sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night." Nesta spoke the words softly, but something about Laurian's eyebrows signified that she had heard.

Elain danced forward. She started talking about men with wings and fire cages and how Feyre had fallen off the hatter's roof. The last bit made Laurian's sharp gaze careen towards Feyre. "Really? A roof?" Her voice had that dangerous calm to it that every Archeron knew meant a long, lengthy lecture. 

Nesta shot her an unreadable look before sliding into the house.

"Elain, go with Nesta. Feyre, would you like to tell me what this business is about?" Her eyes moved towards the fae warriors, the shadows darkening her gaze.

"We should talk inside, Mama." The crowds had followed Feyre and the others home, and were getting larger as they spoke. 

Lauriana took a step to the side, letting Feyre slide past. But she pushed herself to block the doorway as Cassian and the other warriror moved to follow her. "Sers, thank you for escorting my daughter home. Your work is done." Lauriana sounded like she was smiling pleasantly at them, her voice light and polite. That was not a good sign.

Feyre shot a wild look at Elain, who had her fists shoved into her mouth to hold down her wild grin.

Cassian, who seemed three heads taller than Lauriana, bowed deeply. It made his wings flare out from his back a little. "My apologies, honored one, but we need to enter your home. I have made my vow to protect the Feyreisa. I go where she goes."

"What if she has to go to the privy?" Elain asked.

"Elain Calope!" Lauriana shot a scathing look over her shoulder. "Get inside."

"I am?" Elain pointed to the floor. The entryway floor.

"Come on, don't get grounded too." Nesta grabbed Elain's shoulder and pulled her deeper into the house.

Lauriana watched until they had disappeared. Then she turned back to Cassian. "And what is this Fey - whatever that word was? What are you talking about?"

Feyre stepped closer. "Mama, we can do this inside, or we can do this outside. I'm pretty sure if we do it outside, we'll only be spreading the news faster." She jerked her chin towards the crowd surrounding the house. "And the fae are good people, Mama."

"They're magic. Magic is dangerous. Cursed." Lauriana was from the North, where the Magic Wards had left the deepest scars and the skirmishes had never truly died out. 

"Mama, it's necessary. At least for right now." Feyre sighed at her mother's uncompromising face. "They're stranger sin a strange land, all they know about Celieria is what they've seen. Is this how you want them to remember our hospitality."

Over Feyre's shoulder, she heard Nesta mutter 'good one'.

Because if there was one thing Lauriana Archeron hated more than magic, it was bad manners.

She looked at Cassian. "No funny business. You are guests in my home." 

"Yes, honored one." Cassian said. He bowed again, then he and the others stepped inside.

The two warriors took up positions inside the main room. They all stood silently, hands clasped behind their back, feet apart, restful and loose but still somehow seconds way from action. It was disconcerting, especially because they had a literal glow about their skin that brightened the room, and their stern-faces gave a serious air to the place that had never existed in the Archeron home before. 

Seeing them made Feyre feel very, very far away from her life.

She walked to the couch and flung herself into it. Nesta of course, was in her favorite chair, and Elain decided to perch on the armrest of it, her grin wide. 

"I want answers, Feyre." Lauriana demanded. 

"Well..." Feyre was careful in how she phrases the crazed events of the day. She didn't mention how Rhysand had terrified her, or who he'd Marked her neck. Those things weren't important - or wise - for her mother to know. The rest, her mother would figure out from the gosspiers anyway. Still, she tried to make it all seem normal. "And, so here we are." She waved her hand in the room, to the five pairs of fae eyes that watched her every movement and breath.

"I - you..." Laruiana started to laugh, then, a quiet, choked laugh that had Feyre concerned for her mother's mental health. "So you're saying the fantastical, inhuman man you've been mooning over since you were old enough to read those old Fae tales -" Another choked laugh. "He just came out of the sky and declared you his soul's mate?"

"Ahh..." Feyre's face felt hot. She shot a glare at the red-headed warrior who was trying hard to hide his smile. He looked absurdly elegant standing there, more courtier than warrior, with ruby-red hair that reflected light. He had a large scar running down the left side of his face, and his eye had been replaced by a golden orb of some kind. 

Lauriana's choked laughter ended as abruptly as it had come. Stark horror replaced it, so deep and unnatural that it sent the small hairs on the back of Feyre's neck standing up. "Mama?" She reached up to grab her mother's hand, but Lauriana shied away. "Mama, what's wrong?"

Before Lauriana could answer, there was a loud knock on the door. Elain was up and skipping to answer it, and then Isaac Hale, of all people, was being escorted into the main room. 

"What's going on?" He asked. "Feyre, what's all this about with the fae?" He looked - small. Delicate. Breakable in a way Feyre had never thought to look for before. Maybe because he was a normal man surrounded by fae warriors. 

Or maybe it was because Feyre had finally met the man she'd been dreaming about all her life. Sure, he wasn't what she had expected, but near the end there she had seen a spark of something. As he'd caressed her face, he'd seemed like the charming, cunning, political creature that the stories had described him as. And those few brief seconds with him meant more to her than all the times she'd spent seeking pleasure with Isaac.

"Isaac, it's-"

Isaac had walked into the room and was reaching for her arm. But before he could touch her, the sound of unsheathing knives cut through the air. Every single one of the fae guards had naked steel in their hands, but it was towards Cassian that Feyre looked. Something about him looked... tightly leashed.

Isaac withdrew his hand as the blood rushed out of his face.

Lauriana was much less intimidated. She put her fists on her round hips. "Now, you see her, Sers. This is Feyre's fiance. You've no business entering my homes and intervening between a man and wife!"

There was a quick, musical conversation between the men. then the redhead with the gold eye laughed.

Lauriana's face grew red. "You are a guest in my home. If you are not polite, then leave!"

The red-heads face smoothed over so quickly, it was almost baffling. He gave a small bow. 

"Isaac, honey," Larauriana turned to him, and with a smooth movement of her hand ushered him back towards the door. "Thank you for stopping by, I know how you must be worried for Feyre, but she's all right. And right now, we need to talk as a family. Be sure to come by tomorrow, all right?" Before he could say a thing, she shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.

"Mama, you can't be serious." Nesta said. "There is no way she can marry Isaac now."

"Now wait a blessed minute," Lauriana snapped. "We've already signed off on the marriage. Breaking it would mean we would have to pay the bride-price, and we'd ruin this family's reputation. It would make us destitute!"

Nesta scoffed. "What would you have Feyre do? Deny the single most powerful man in the world? Tell him no, and have him decide to finish what he started after the War?"

"And she loves him! They're _soul_ mates, Mama." Elain sighed. "It's so romantic."

Lauriana ignored them. "If you refuse, you'll see this family destroyed."

Feyre opened her mouth, then closed it again. Wishing and hoping was a very dangerous thing, she hadn't known she'd been doing it until this very moment, when it was being threatened. 

"If I accept, I'll see my soul destroyed." Feyre murmured. "Is that what you want, Mama?"

"Feyre..." Lauriana shot her a disapproving glare.

And Feyre understood. To Lauriana this was about more than just marriage. This was about the Path of Light. This was about proving that Feyre had grown beyond her curse and had outgrown her demons. To Lauriana, Isaac represented undeniable proof that she had raised Feyre right. Without magic. Without damage. 

And Rhysand represented everything Lauriana had tried to grow her out of. 

Feyre didn't know what her expression was, but the sight of it made Lauriana steel her spine. 

"If I haven't taught you properly that this way -" She flung her hand out towards the Fae warriors, who were watching them all with calculating stillness, "-this way _will_ lead to your damnation? Then I haven't taught you anything."

For a moment, Feyre could almost smell the incense coming off the priests as they held her down. They'd had such a hard time holding her down, they'd sat on her. The weight of fully grown men sitting at top her had stolen the air from lungs. 

But even their weight been enough to keep those priests alive. Incense had been quickly suffocated by the taste of copper as she got her next breath.There had been so much blood it had overwhelmed the ancient smells of the church and suffused her mouth with copper.

"You will marry Isaac. You'll eventually find it in yourself to love him. For now, go upstairs. I don't want to see you till morning."

Feyre wanted to protest, but she couldn't find the words. She ached with the desire to do something... but there was nothing to do.

It was a pipe dream anyway. 

"Mama!" Elain stood, her hands balls into fists. "You are being so unfair about this! You're always pushing Feyre to be - to be - You never let Feyre have her own life!"

"Elain." Nesta hissed, grabbing for Elain's skirts.

"No, it isn't right!"

"Don't get me started on you too, young lady." Lauriana snapped, turning on Elain. If they started fighting now, they would be at each other's throat for days. 

Nesta's met her eyes. Together, they stood and walked up the stairs to let them fight. They paused outside of Feyre's room, and Nesta displayed an uncommon show of affection by putting her hand on Feyre's shoulder.

"You believe in fate, right?"

"Yes." Feyre's voice was stale, and her frame felt wooden. Below, her Mama and Elain started to scream at one another, their voices getting shriller as they found that ancient argument they always went back to. Words like _cruel_ and _childish_ floated up from the din. 

Nesta squeezed her shoulder. "Then believe fate will work this out."

With one last look, Nesta walked to her own room and shut the door. 

* * *

The coast was clear after midnight. Her parent's angry conversation had finally died about half an hour ago, and Sol's gentle snores echoed through the thin walls.

Feyre got out of bed, quickly grabbing for the male clothes she kept in her dresser and putting on the loose trousers and tunic. She slipped out of her bedroom window, grabbing the seal with her fingertips as she shimmied towards the rope the twins had kindly dangled out of their window after securing it to the bedpost.

They'd smuggled her food earlier in the night, Elain eager to tell Feyre everything that had happened once Sol got home. They had apparently tried to get that two warriors to leave, but Cassian had refused, even when the authorities were threatened. So they had stayed, and Lauriana had fumed. 

With the gossip and food, the twins had managed to smuggle Feyre Selianne's note.

Her friend wanted to meet. Feyre knew where. She knew when. She just had to get there.

Tugging to make sure the rope was secure before putting weight on it - once Nesta had forgotten to secure it to a bed, making for a painful week - then wrapped her legs around it and started to climb. Once she was past the window, she easily climbed onto the roof and moved towards the side of the house where the tree was. A leap of faith later, a few leaves and scratches, she was shimmying down the bark and landing in the garden at the back of the house.

Feyre kept to the shadows, avoiding the bright moonlight in the hopes that it would keep the Fae eyes from moving toward her.

Tonight, of all nights, Feyre couldn't have a Fae escort. Selianne had confessed years ago, as she was preparing for the birth of her first child, that she was not Celierian. Her mother had been a Hybern slave, sold to a sea-captain for marriage. While the Hybern blood was diluted, it was still Hybern blood. And the Fae were rather notorious for hating anything Hybrn.

What the difference between Hyber and other mortal countries, Feyre didn't know. But it was obvious her friend was freaking out that the fae were in the city.

Feyre moved towards the courtyard gate and then flinched as Cassian stepped in front of her. His dark hazel eyes took in her clothes with an expressionless stare. "You wish to go somewhere, Feyre Archeron?"

"I - shit." She looked behind her to see, yes, there was the red head with the golden eye. "I need to go out." 

She waited for Cassian to tell her no. Waited for him to move like he was going to escort her inside the house or make enough noise to wake her family. 

Instead, Cassian simply looked at the house behind her. "You are the Feyreisa." He said calmly, his wings shrugging before his shoulders did. "All you have to do is ask, and we'll escort you."

Feyre opened her mouth, then close it. "No one will hurt me." She motioned down to her men's clothes.

Cassian just stood there, waiting patiently. 

Feyre tried again. "I'm going to meet a friend and you'll scare her."

"We'll escort you all the same." The red head said.

Cassian just stared. Why didn't he _blink_? He wouldn't look at her in the eyes for long - it hurt her chest oddly when he did -and he didn't blink.

Feyre considered going back to her room. The twins could get a message out in the morning to Selianne explaining what had happened, and Selianne would understand. considering the woman's fears about the fae, there was no reason to bring fae with her. But all ninth Selianne would worry and pace, her anxiety stretching as she imagined the warriors kicking down her door. And the idea of being cooped up in her room any longer had Feyre wanting to pull out her hair.

"You really need to come?" She asked, crossing her arms. "Then you can't listen in on our conversation."

The redhead laughed a little as he stepped beside Feyre. Cassian, however, never wavered. He bowed deeply as he said, "I'm not here to spy, Feyre Archeron, but to protect."

His earnest honesty made her feel stupid. All her bravado leaked out, and she shuffled one foot in front of the other, not knowing what to do with her hands now that her arms weren't crossed. "All right, then. Let's - let's go."

Her disguise was made relatively useless with steel-clad Fae warriors escorting her. Feyre ended up taking the long way through back alleys just to avoid the stares. And because she was already going the long way, she took to the east lanes that ran adjacent to the merchant’s quarters. There was an entrepreneuring food vender that stayed in business all hours of the night, looking to give the drunken some much-needed food. The twins hadn’t managed to sneak Feyre up much food, and she bet that the warrior's hadn’t eaten in a while, either.

She urged the two men to stay back as they rounded near the glowing lights of the food vendor. Cassian refused, so they agreed that the red-head - who could almost pass as semi-normal, or at least anatomically human - joined her. He looked revolted when she offered him rat-on-a-stick.

“Ah, well, what would you like?” She asked.

“Edible food.”

"Rat is edible."

"Rat is a creature that eats garbage."

"So do mealworms." Feyre offered, oddly delighted at the disgusted look on his face. "And that makes a mighty good snack."

He didn't seem to understand that she was joking as he looked at her as if _she_ was the mealworm.

Eventually, he settled on a vegetable soup that cost a fortune. Two bowls of it nearly cleaned out her savings, so she went with the rat instead of the pig-bits. They ate as they walked.

To say that she felt comforted with them surrounding her was an understatement. Even with her men’s clothes and her ill-favored looks, there was always an element of danger walking the streets at night. Now, she felt secure. As if their mere presence meant she didn’t have to look over her shoulder or worry about which alley or road to choose.

She’d finished her rat when Casssian spoke. “Do you climb out of your bedroom window often?”

“Depends on what you think of as ‘often’, I suppose. More than one a month, less than once a week.”

“I had not thought Celieria’s daughters so… adventurous.”

Finishing her rat gave her a nice distraction from answering him. The only question was _how_ she would answer him. She would have to admit she was different either way—she was—but how deep would she go? How much could she share with the strange, heartbreaking warrior?

“When I was a girl, my room would make me feel trapped, so I’d walk around. At first, it was just outside in the backyard, so I wouldn’t wake up my parents, but there’s so much peace walking around in the night air…” She tilted her face back, feeling her cap slip a bit. But what did it matter if anyone saw her hair with these warrior’s around her? “Most nights I just end up going to the National Museum of Art.”

“You are either very brave or very foolish, Feyre. Night streets are no place for young women alone.”

“Celieria is well patrolled,” She pointed out, turning to look at two authorities doing their business. Which happened to be buying drugs, it seemed. They turned, eyes going wide as they saw the fae warriors, then turning tail and running. “And the streets are well lit—” Not that this alley was.

If Cassian had a sense of humor under all his graveness, it wasn’t showing tonight. “Evil has an affinity for the night. Even in well-lit, well-patrolled places.”

“Not that it’ll matter much, eh?” Feyre murmured. “I have a feeling that the King will not let me go anywhere without guards now.” Which would pose a problem for a later date. Right now, it made her feel both equally safe and equally trapped. She turned to the other warrior, who was piking at bits of carrot-like they were secretly pretending to be rat “Since you're guarding me, perhaps you could tell me your name?”

He arched one scarred eyebrow at her. "Lucien."

She waited for more. He went back to picking at his carrots. "That's it?"

"They also call me the fox." He said, shrugging. 

"He's young yet, without a Name." Cassian said.

"Your name is the Lord of Bloodshed, right?" He’d gained the title in the Magic Wars. An upstarting Illyrian warrior, there had been no mention of him before Rhysand had picked him up from the battlefield and elevated him to General because all the lieutenants and captains were dead. Cassian had ended up winning that impossible battle – and his reputation had begun.

But those same stories described him as a fun loving, happy man. This man beside her was not.

He gave her a tight nod, then seemed to redirect the conversation. “Your mother does not like magic or magical races?” 

“She’s from the North. The magic from the Mage Wars left behind… many things. Dangerous mutations, dark places no one dares enter, but most fear. Seems that magic and Celierians just don’t mix.” 

“And yet Celieria profits from magic.” Lucien pointed to the fire-lit lamps. “For its well-lit, well-patrolled areas.”

She shot the man a wry look. “The city is different.” She agreed. “Very different from the North.”

She finished her rate as Cassian asked, “Do you share your mother’s fear of magic?”

“It makes me - hmm, uncomfortable.” That was the best word for it, she supposed. Usually whenever she was around magic, she’d get terrible headaches and her sleep would be worse off than usual. She was very glad for Selianne’s note, if only so she could stave off sleep for a few more hours.

They came to the National Museum of Art, a sprawling, domed building in the middle of a manicured park bordering the Velpin River’s magic-purified water. It glowed like a jewel in the night, constantly open, constantly awaiting for someone to come in and view the beauty inside.

“Don’t touch any of the exhibits.” Feyre warned, voice echoing around the marble vestibule. “It’s - well, I’m sure you can tell.” She waved her hands to the weaving of colors that surrounded each exhibit. “Anyone who touches is frozen until the curators come in the morning.”

They walked around the huge golden statue of King Dorian the First, who was holding up his sword in one hand. His Elvish wife - whose death had started the Mage Wars - stood beside him, her spread healing hands over the upturned face of a child. At the base of the statue was Celieria’s creed: _Might and mercy shall vanquish all foes._

King Dorian had died in the war, and his lineage had died with it. All his cousins, his nephews, his aunts and uncles. The entire bloodline gone within twenty years. And then Rhysand had happened, and what little Celierian nobility that was left happened to die within three days. The six women of noble birth that were left, headed by Queen Demetra, had created the Council of Queens to bring order to the few humans left in the world. 

The lineage of Queens had a separate wing in the Museum. Instead of turning towards it, she turned towards the Magic Wars wing.

Selianne was sitting on a cushioned bench beside the alcove that housed an eight-foot bronze statue of a Fae Warrior. Her normally tidy blond hair was disheveled, her pretty face drawn tight. She jumped up as soon as she heard footsteps, then froze as her eyes moved past Feyre's towards her companions.

Selianne seemed to drawn into herself, holding her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Who are they?”

“My, ah, guards?” Feyre asked. 

Selianne might as well have been hit in the stomach, for all the color drained out of her face. “It’s true, then. The Mad King really did claim you as his mate.”

“Apparently so.” Em said curtly, her lips thinning. She introduced the two warriors to Selianne. 

“I can’t believe you brought them… what if they… you know… read my mind or something?”

“They can't." Feyre said, drawing her friend towards her. "That's a unique power that only a few Fea have.

Cassian came forward, making Selianne flinch back, nearly tearing Feyre’s arm out. “I will build a privacy shield around you both. You may walk and speak freely to one another without worry that others will hear.” He raised his hands and threads of faintly glowing red light spun from his fingertips in a tight weave. Feyre felt a cool, soft wind touch her hair and skin, smelling of springtime—warm rain and crisp morning air.

It seemed to close around her and gave her something. She felt tranquil, a silence in her mind. She’d never noticed how much strain and pressure she’d always felt until this very moment.

“Thank you.” She mouthed to Cassian.

Selianne grabbed her arm again. “You can feel their magic, can’t you?”

Confused, Feyre turned to her friend. “Can’t you?”

“No. I know he’s weaving magic, because he said so, and he glowed a bit more than before, but even knowing it’s there I can’t sense it.” She shook her head, drawing Feyre away, nearly jumping out of her skin as the two men moved to follow.

“Calm down. They can’t hear us.”

“I can’t believe you brought them with you!” She hissed, ducking her head down as if somehow not seeing the warriors would make them cease to exist.

“It’s okay. Hey.” She grabbed her friend’s hand. “Calm down, Sel. Breathe with me here. I did the best I could. They were going to follow me regardless, and I couldn’t leave you here worrying…”

“Fine, fine.” Sel waved Feyre’s hands away. “At least you didn’t bring _him_. What happens if he found out about my mother? About me and my children?”

“He won’t.” Feyre vowed it, ducking her chin down and staring into her friend’s beautiful blue eyes. “I won’t let him. I’ll lock the memory away so deep inside of me, he won’t be able to find it—”

“What?” Sel looked confused. “You make it sound like burying thoughts is a real thing.”

“Of course it is.” Feyre shrugged, tugging her friend’s hand so they could walk through the exhibit. “It’s all very easy.”

“Hm.” She seemed to catch a painting of Rhysand - drawn poorly, so he hardly looked like the man she’d met earlier today - and shivered violently. “We’ll have to avoid each other until he’s gone, Feyre.”

“It’s for the best.” It hurt, but it was.

“And when will he leave you alone? Is there anything you can do to hurry it up? Just reject him—say ‘you’re a terrible monster and I don’t want you anywhere near me!’. That should do the trick, I think.”

Feyre shook her head. What would he do? He was so temperamental, which sparked her own temper. Something about him made her feel wild and free, stronger than she’d ever felt in her entire life. “You sound like Mama.”

“I knew there was a reason why I loved that woman so much.” Selianne laughed along with Feyre.

They walked in circles for a bit. The more they walked the more Selianne seemed to calm down. “There must be some Fae blood in you.” She seemed to say out of nowhere. “Maybe you’re a child of a _dahl’reisen_. That's why you can feel magic.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just sensitive to magic because of the northern scars.” Em said.

“And what scars they are.” Selianne huffed. “At least _that_ part of the world wasn’t burned away.”

Feyre stiffened. “He was grieving. It was war. Going mad is a well-documented Fae phenomenon called the Wilding. It happens when a family member, a mate, or a child is killed in violent or unpredictable ways. Tamlin vel Serranis experienced the same thing when his sister was murdered.”

“It was a massacre, Feyre. One just happened to start a war and the other happened to end it. No matter how much you try to pretty it up or rationalize it, their Fae violence was a massacre.”

“It was vengeance.” Feyre took her hand back. “Hybern murdered Tamlin’s sister— _that_ was the true murder. Marikah had done nothing to provoke them."

“No, _Tamlin_ started a war!” Selianne insisted.

“No. He was getting retribution for a wrong done—both of them were. And in both cases the Hybern just happened to get more than what they bargained for.”

Selianne held up her hands. “Enough, enough. I’m not going to argue about this any longer. I should have known better than to speak ill of the Fae in front of you.” She was eyeing Feyre intently. “Especially the Mad King. You were always particular about him.”

“Yes. Well.” Feyre looked away. “Apparently for a good reason.”

“Aren’t you the least bit afraid of him?”

Feyre opened her mouth but found she couldn’t lie and say ‘no’. “I… am scared of him.” Admitting that seemed wrong. _Feeling_ that seemed wrong. She should not be scared of the one man out there born to wed her soul, should she? And yet, it was there. Coloring their every interaction, her every thought of him. She turned away from the sympathy in Selianne’s eyes.

“But, Selianne, he held me earlier today and I… I’ve never felt anything like it. I felt wild and free and loved and strong.” She tried to get that feeling back, to recall what it had been like to have him stare at her as if she was the entire world.

Then Selianne snorted, ruining the remembrance. “It was probably some Fae magic—a glamour of some kind.”

“I would have known if it was.”

Selianne didn’t feel the same. She squeezed Feyre’s hands tight. “Don’t let them control your mind, Feyre. Never.”

“I can assure you,” Feyre said dryly, “My mind is my own, as ever.” As broken and damaged as always. “It’s just that—” She shook her head as Selianne moved to speak. “I’ve always wanted it, you know? The Fae perfect love. It’s too good to be true, I know that, but I still _want_ it. So I’ll hold onto it, even if Rhysand will come forward tomorrow saying his claiming of me is all a terrible joke.”

Feyre tried to smile past the sudden tightness and ache that those words gave her. What would happen if he _did_ say it was all a mistake? She’d accept it, of course, but it would hurt. No—it would crush her. All her hopes and dreams had been given to her the second Rhysand rushed from the sky. Sure, he was nothing like she imagined he would be, but he still was—more. More than Isaac Hale. More than any man she’d ever met. She didn’t want him to say she was a mistake.

Selianne drew Feyre in for a hug. “Oh, Feyre. You’re not perfect, but you’re real. You’re kind. You’re protective. And if Rhsyand can’t see that, then fuck him.”

“Yeah, fuck him,” Feyre cheer, delighted. She wrapped her arms around her friend, tucking the woman into her side.

“I mean it.”

“I—” A tingling ran down Feyre’s skin, an awareness that seemed to grow rapidly by the second. She lifted her head of Sel’s shoulder, the tears that had been threatening to well out drying instantly. “He’s coming.”

“He?” Selianne asked, confused. “He who?”

“Rhysand.”

“He’s coming?” Selianne’s voice sounded shrill. She moved away quickly. “Here? Now?”

“Yes.” She felt him, felt the longing and hunger of him, which echoed inside her own chest. “He’s here.”

Fresh panic shone in Selianne’s blue eyes. “Feyre. The Mad King can read my mind, can’t he?” Before Feyre could answer, she was shaking her head. “Bright Lord preserve me, if he picks my brain—I—” She lunged forward and hugged Feyre fiercely. “I’ve got to go. Take care, dear friend.” She cupped Feyre’s face briefly before hurrying away, heading for the rear exit.

Just before she reached the door, Em felt Rhysand get closer. Selianne cast one last look over her shoulder before opening the door and then froze there, her eyes wide upon the man - the King - that was striding into the room.

The shields Cassian had made dissolved like a bubble. Tense pressure flooded into Feyre’s head in a rush as she turned to face the man who made her blood bubble inside her veins.

Everything about him called to her, making her feel as she had when she was a giddy schoolgirl mooning over—well, Rhysand.

His violet eyes were like mini moons, hard and full of power and—yes, there was the madness there.

Those eyes flickered towards Selianne, who’d still stalled at the door.

Feyre stepped into his line of sight, drawing his attention from her friend. “You’re here. How did you know where to find me?” And then the rear exit doors were swinging closed as Selianne took Feyre’s distraction.

Rhysand’s gaze seemed to pin Feyre on the spot. And there it was. His unjust anger, his coldness, the promise of violence that leaked off his loose, powerful frame - it made her angry to see it again. Angry at the unfairness of it all. That he was being cruel to her. That he wasn’t what she’d always thought he would be.

“Cas told me.” Rhysand said. All his gentle cunning from before dissolved in his acid indifference as he scanned her from head to foot as if she disgusted him. “But even if he hadn’t, I will always be able to find you, mate.” Anger seemed to thrum off him. “You will _not_ try to leave your house without a guard again.”

“Listen to me.” She stepped forward, not knowing where she was getting her own anger from, only that it was there, bursting inside of her like a black cloud. She poked at his absurdly muscled chest. “I am not your prisoner. I am a free citizen of Celieria. You have no right to order me to do _anything_.”

He took a step forward, and she took one back. “And when you are accosted by Hybern for being my mate?” Her heart pounded wild in her chest. Her muscled ached from the desire to run. The way he was looking at her—it was hard to imagine that he wasn’t about to kill her. “When you decide to abandon a guard that is here simply to protect you, for what? For pride? For normalcy? And I feel you die before I can get to you because you are alone?” He lashed out, suddenly, moving faster than she could see or predict. His hands were suddenly warm on either side of her face.

He held her with power and intent. Though his callused hands themselves were gentle – massive - on either side of her head, there was so much tension behind that gentleness. As if he was restraining himself from squeezing her head. “Will you really do that to me? I cannot bear another lover’s death, Feyre.”

“I am not your lover.”

The words were out before logic could tell her not to. They sat heavy between them as anguish and panic and grief and madness seemed to build and build inside his powerful frame. And—

And then raw anguish. Grief so full and traumatizing it literally took away Feyre’s breath. She fell without the conscious thought of falling, her knees giving out under her. Only Rhysand’s quick attempts to pull her fully into his chest stopped her from crashing into the floor.

And the anguish spread. And spread.

At first, she thought it was because of her, because of what she had said to him. But then she looked up from his shoulder and realized that he must not have heard what she said. Because they were in the War Gallery of the Elvish wing. More than twenty oil pieces dominated the walls, centering around Fabrizio Chelan’s masterpiece of composition, color, and perspective: _Death of the Beloved._

The painting that showed Elysetta, dead, being held by her mourning lover as war raged around them.

The painting was directly behind Feyre, but she knew it was what had caught his eye and caused his grief. She shifted in his arms, looking to wrap her arms around him, comfort him. But as she did, she became aware of the delicate, beautifully interwoven magic growing beside her.

There was a smell, like flowers. And a frame, a Fae woman’s lithe and tall frame appearing as if from collected dust motes themselves—

Rhysand pulled away from Feyre before her arms could circle around him. And as he stopped touching her, she stopped feeling his anguish.

Feyre turned away from the strange apparition of a woman towards _Death of the Beloved_. She knew it well enough. She’d spent hours of her life staring at it. Fabrizio Chelan had done a wonderful job of showing the woman’s fading beauty, the man’s horrified sorrow. But for the first time, Feyre didn’t look at it and thing the painting itself tragically romantic—just tragic.

“Her death was nothing like that.” Rhysand said, voice dead of all emotion. His gaze was frozen on Elysetta’s dead face.

And beside him, a woman stood, growing slowly into awareness. First there was the outline of a frame, then muted colors, then shadows, then textures. Elysetta’s ghost appeared bit by bit, fed by the magic Rhysand didn’t even seem to be aware of weaving.

Feyre was more than sure that mentioning the woman’s ghost would not be the right thing to do.

“How do you mean?” She asked instead, watching the woman form. Elysetta was—Lord of Light she was gorgeous. The curve of her small cheek, the shape of her expressive eyes, the grace of her still and lean body. A once in a lifetime beauty, that’s how everyone had described her. And seeing her for the first time, born from Rhysand’s memories as his magic unconsciously recreated her, Feyre realized it was true.

“I never got to hold her like that—for the last time.” Feyre turned back to Rhysand as he and Elysetta’s ghost looked over the painting. “They drew me away from her as part of their ambush, then attacked her to destroy me. She was badly burned. The Hybern Mages cut off her head so she couldn’t be healed.” His voice was lifeless. Devoid. His frame was so still it lacked animation as Elysetta’s grew a life of its own. “I was in the air when I felt her die, and then the madness took me. I don’t remember… much after that. All I know is there was nothing left to hold by the time I became aware.”

_It’s okay, my love, you did everything that you could._

The voice that spoke echoed inside Feyre’s head. A soft, musical voice. Longing and sadness and heartache where Feyre’s had been empty.

He reached forward to touch the painting. The image of Elysetta, in her death swoon, cheeks still rosy and whole, glimmering with Fae luminescence, clutched in the arms of her strong mate who should have been there but wasn’t.

“She died alone at the hands of a Hybern.”

 _I died honorably. I died well. You can’t blame yourself anymore, my love_.

Feyre was aware that she was trembling. She couldn’t bring herself to stop. She wasn’t quite sure what she felt. All she knew was that she should not be watching this. That the grief was not something for her eyes or her attention. But she couldn’t look away from the heartbreak or the madness. No more than she could comprehend loving someone so much that your mind created their love and support, almost tangibly, because your own brain couldn’t handle their non-existence.

Feyre had never loved anyone like that. Not in her entire life.

She was sure no one could love her like that, either. Especially not Rhysand, who looked at Feyre with rage and ferocity and made her feel oh-so-alone.

“In a way, it is good to see this painting and remember.” He said, voice still broken and without life.

“That you loved her?” Feyre asked, confused. That he still did was painfully obvious.

“ _Nei_. That I failed her. My first duty is to protect her. I did not. It will _not_ happen again.” His voice gained animation. Tension locked into his frame, bunching his muscles, making him somehow bigger. When he turned from the painting to look at Feyre, he turned to glare and spit out hatred. And behind him, looking over his shoulder at Feyre, Elysetta’s ghost began to cry silent, translucent tears. As if the soul that had created her - Rhysand’s soul - was leaking out it’s sadness when all he could do was spit his fury.

“Which is why,” His hand came up and grabbed at Feyre’s hair, twisting and twining in it. “You will never leave your home unescorted. Or even try to.”

“I—”

“ _Nei!_ ” He roared. “You are my mate! Harm to you is harm to me!” He shoved his face forward, keeping her trapped by her hair, which was starting to ache and burn as he twisted his hand further into it. “The world is no longer a safe place for you.”

His anger was beating at her mind, making her ache because of his own grief as well as hers. And in his sorrow and her loneliness met inside her heart and threatened to shatter her.

“I am betrothed to another.” She said it to change the conversation. To gain back a little bit of ground. To confess. And to get him to step away from her.

His beautifully shaped lips twisted into a sneer. “Cas told me about him, too. Your soul called out, Feyre, and mine answered. That one moment made you a prize Hybern will kill to claim. Nothing can change that. Not you. Not the Hale welp. Not your parents. And that means you will never again attempt to wander the streets alone.”

He stepped back, then, his fingers catching in her hair before they untangled. “Your guard will take you home.”

She thought of arguing further. Of fighting him because he held on too tight—but there was nothing in Feyre anymore. She was… empty.

She turned to walk towards Cassian, who was standing in the doorway, face still, eyes blank and watching. He said nothing, just stepped aside as she careened unsteadily towards him and away.

Before she left, though, she looked back. To watch her mate staring at Chelan’s painting of Elysetta’s death, his own face dark and without life. And beside him, comforting him, was the ghostly image of his one, _true_ love.

* * *

A boy darted towards the shadows of the merchant district. A block ahead, a pretty blond woman he followed from the museum turned down a narrow-cobbled lane towards a modest residential district.

 _Follow her_ , Mistress Ianthe had ordered. _Find out where she lives. Find out who she is._

And so the boy followed.

* * *

Rhysand

Rhysand remained in the museum for a long while, standing before the painting. Remembering.

At some point in time, Elyesetta stood with him. She didn't say anything to him, didn't reach out towards him. Maybe she was as ashamed of his behavior as he was.

He'd loved Elysetta. He'd loved her with all the unfettered, consuming passion of youth. He'd been a young, cocky man, already more powerful than everyone around him. There was talk by that point that they wanted to do something about it, bind his magic or put him on a spirit walk. But he'd had bigger, grander dreams. Of being _King_. Of taking the fractured nature of Prythian with all its many High Lords and ruling it under his own will. He had been working towards that goal when he'd met Elysetta in the Autumn Land. 

Elysetta was the first in his heart since boyhood. He'd never wanted another. Never thought to desire another.

And now he did.

It was a betrayal to her - to his own heart. His body and soul had betrayed him.

Rhysand looked to Elysetta now. She glowed, bright, beautiful, and golden. Her long, curly red hair blew back from the luminous oval of her gold-toned skin. Her full, red lips smiled with a gentle kind of tenderness, but there was a fathomless look to her golden set eyes.

And for the briefest of seconds, she flickered.

Rhysand was a master of his own magic. He could create her so she was more than just an illusion, but seemingly whole, real, and alive. This was the first time he had ever thought to see her as - as a creation of his own mind.

Now, he saw through it. And Elysetta faded a bit. And for a second the wild flame of her hair was replaced by silky gold-brown locks. And the golden luminescence turned into an alabaster paleness - her oval face shifting into a strange, indomitable intelligence. Gold eyes turned into strange, metallic two-toned eyes.

And then Elysetta was back. But paler. More transparent.

If Rhysand was capable fo shedding tears, he would have shed them now. As it was, only Elysetta cried, her voice echoing around with all the other agonized souls trapped in his mind. _I don't want to loose you, Rhysand._

She bent forward as if to kiss him, and he leaned to meet her lips as he had so many times before -

The lips that touched his were too full. Wide. Carnivorous where Elysetta's had been sweet.

He pulled back just in time to see the mirth in Feyre's gaze before the illusion shattered and dissolved into black mist.

Rhysand couldn't betray his mate. Not even with a phantom love that was slipping away.

"Your magic knows you belong to another, even if your still rebelling."

Rhysand didn't turn to look at Azriel, who stood at the entrance fo Rhysand's torture chamber. Marissya was with him, as well as her personal guard. Every single one of them was uncomfortable with what they had witnessed. A man mentally betraying his mate? Withing for someone other than his promised one? It was unthinkable. And as close to a _dahl'reisen_ action that Rhysand had ever performed in front of them.

If only they truly knew him - their King - and the things he was willing to do. The actions he had taken to secure his own future and the dreams he'd seen swirling around in the Cauldron as a child.

They wouldn't just scorn him. They would actively burn him to the ground.

"Go away." Rhysand said. He needed to grieve alone.

"We all loved Elysetta." Marissya said. "But... she's gone, Rhysand."

"I _know_ that." He snapped, earning a hard glare from Azriel. "You think I don't know that?"

Azriel sighed. He turned to Marissya and kissed her cheek, gently pushing her to walk to a different wining of the museum. Her guard followed her while Azriel took a seat at the bench before the horrible painting Rhysand was staring at.

"Cas told me you shared your torment with your mate." Azriel said, after a long, lengthy minute of silence. "It disturbed him. _Him,_ Rhys. Cas is one kill away from losing his soul - and your actions -"

"I know what I am." Monsterous actions created a monster.

He had been cruel to her, sure. And the energy and spark of her had leaked out, making her seem almost fragile as she'd walked away from him.

But that couldn't be because he'd yelled at her. He'd been much crueller earlier in the day.

Azriel picked lightly on his thoughts. "She saw your apparition. Of Elysetta."

Rhysand considered that. He often found that he'd weaved Elysetta's ghost from his powers and mind without knowing it. 

He could remember the loneliness he'd sensed as he told Feyre to go home. He'd thought the feeling was his own. What if it had been hers?

Had he made his mate feel that way? That aching loneliness so deep it was like yawning pit threatening to devour everything?

Azriel sighed. "She was an amazing woman. A shit _shei'dalin_ , but sweeter than anyone I'd ever met." Rhysand smiled at vague memories of Elysetta trying to mend broken bones and failing. She had flapped around hours after every failed attempt, anxious about her lack of skill. But every day she always walked back to the healing halls, determined to at least try again.

"She was always singing."

"Cauldron - that voice." Azriel's voice turned deeper in a bur of laughter. "Pretty as the birds."

Rhysand put a hand to his aching chest. "She would always fill our home with flowers. So I'd come to Council smelling like a damn hydrangea. And she'd steal all the hot water in the morning. And come to watch me practice in the training yards, even though the violence upset her. At night, she'd lay her head on my chest and we'd talk for hours about what I wanted to do with our land." Land, and a country, that he had not ruled in a long, long while. 

"Yes. I remember how she always had you thinking. And how when you were around her, you were always guilty."

Rhysand looked at his friend, confused. "What?"

"Guilty." Azriel leaned back, putting his hands on the back of the bench as his wings and legs spread out. "You were always going on about how good she was, and how you had to be better. If you so much as made a mistake, you were off your rocker, wondering if she would hate you."

Rhysand stiffened. He could remember in vivid detail the incident Azriel was talking about. "Breaking the minds of those Winter children was-"

"A mistake. You were trying to take the Blithe out of their heads. They were dying anyway. And everybody had agreed you were their last option. You _tried_ Rhys. You tried to do an impossible thing and then you beat yourself up when you realized you weren't in fact a God." Azriel sighed heavily. Shadows whispered around his fingers and crawled towards his ear. "And Elysetta let you. She stood back, let you drink yourself into a stupor, and told all your friends to give you space."

"She was being a good-"

"She was destroying you. She put you on a pedestal. You both put each other up there. But she was constantly put pressure on you to accomplish impossible things because she believed you could. And you tried for her, always pushing for one impossible task after another-"

"At least I wasn't mooning after Morrigan like some lovestruck puppy!" Rhysand snapped. "Wondering why she hadn't chosen me to bed-"

The shadows nearly swallowed Azriel's face before dispersing. "Deflect all you want, Rhys. Elysetta wasn't perfect. Cauldron knew she wasn't perfect for _you_. But you know who is?" Azriel stood. 

"There is one force in the world capable of finding the right person. The person who makes you realize it wasn't a mistake to love a woman who could never love you back, but a mistake to feel shame for loving and wanting at all. That force," He tapped his sternum, and Rhysand's own bond glowed and hummed inside his chest for the first time since his sanity had left him around noon. "That force smooths over all the wrongs. And it reminds you, constantly, that just because you want to be better doesn't mean you have to hate your mistakes."

Rhysand's fists curled at his side. His magic felt like a pressure underneath his skin, threatening to rip him apart.

"I have believed in you from the start. I believe that you were born to save us. That the Cauldron birthed you, knowing the blithe would happen so that you could set the Fae right. And you know what? I think Feyre Archeron was born to help you accomplish your own fate."

Azriel moved to walk out of the room. "So stop hating yourself, and stop thinking you have no right to any happiness because you're not perfect. Because Rhysand, you never will be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for anyone worried that Cas will stay gloomy, I got you. Don't worry.
> 
> Also, the next chapter sound be around Sunday.


	5. Courts of Law, Sprout Your Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know if it was super clear, but Marissya and Marikah - the chick who died and started the magics war - were Tamlin's sisters.
> 
> Also this is a loooonnnggg chapter so there are probably way more typos that usual. Hopefully it doesn't ruin the read for you

Rhysand

He came towards her window a few hours before the sun was about to rise. His heart was heavy, his body exhausted from his long flight through the night. It was meant to clear his head, but in reality, it just made him anxious to see her.

Though she was a strange to him – he recognized that she was the one who could ease the ache. And maybe Azriel was right, maybe he should stop resenting her for that.

She slept badly. He could feel it as he landed in the courtyard and nodded to Cassian and Lucien who guarded the house.

Lucien was sharpening his _elf’cha_ blades, the slow scrape of metal on wet stone as soothing as a lullaby. Next to him, Cassian stood, still and silent. Like a man watching the executioner prepare his axe.

Rhysand understood why Cassian had chosen Lucien – who was dishonored – to guard Feyre with him. And it made him look more closely at his old friend, trying to see if there was anything left of the wild, cocky warrior-general he’d known.

Dead, hazel eyes stared back at him.

Lucien, beside him, grunted. Though his face was turned towards his work, his golden eyes was centered on Rhysand. “Rough night, _King_?”

Rhysand didn’t look away from Cassian.

Lucien had been the only one willing – and insane enough – to join under Tamlin as an apprentice and learn Tamlin’s animalistic style. They’d been inseparable for the greater part of a century, The Beast and his fox.

Because Rhysand had killed Tamlin’s father and elder brothers in his ascension towards the throne, it had been up to Lucien to give Tamlin an honor-death. Only Lucien had failed. Rhysand didn’t know if Lucien had choked at the last minute, or if Tamlin had overpowered him. It didn’t particularly matter. Because of Lucien’s failure, one of the strongest fae warriors left alive during the Magic Wars had lost his soul, and for that, Lucien was dishonorable. Disgraced. And Marissya, in her grief, had grabbed Lucien’s eye and marked him as such, making the damn thing gold. It was supposed to hurt, too. Like pins and needles every time he moved it or blinked.

Cassian, despite being one kill away from turning _dahl’reisen,_ despite one decade left of honorable – if not miserable and wraithly – life left in him, had chosen Lucien so the boy could get back his honor.

It was something that the old Cassian would have done. The one who was passionate, and cocky, and bloodthirsty. The one who had laughed the loudest, and fucked the most, and was always telling anyone who would listen that females could be warriors, not just healers.

That Cassian would have been disgusted in Rhysand’s behavior at the museum. Would have done something about it.

But looking at Cassian now, he couldn’t see any of his old friend in the shell of an Illyrian. There was no one inside to apologize to. Or to thank.

Rhysand turned away from him now. If Lucien failed again, Rhysand would hunt Cassian personally. He’d leave Feyre if he had to, just to give his old friend that peace.

For now, he focused on his mate. Jumping into her window was easy. It was open, letting the warm summer air into a tiny, bare room hardly big enough for a chest, a bed of timber and hay-mattress, and a mirror. In the darkness, the streams of gold in her hair that caught the light were more pronounced, and it fanned around her head in a wild tumble. Her body turned one way, then another, limbs twisting in her nightgown and blanket to expose smooth, long, well-muscled legs.

He leaned forward, careful not to put his bodyweight on the bed as he leaned down and kissed her. Her skin was fever-hot. But soft. So horribly soft.

“I am sorry, Feyre. I will do better by you.” He vowed.

She moved. Murmured. But seemed to calm in her sleep.

He put his gift by her bed and then headed towards the castle to get a few hours of sleep himself.

* * *

Feyre

She woke up with a rope of pearls on her pillow. It tickled at her nose, chasing away whatever clinging dreams she’d been having in the night.

The pearls were beautiful, smooth and iridescent and in a long rope of string. If only he’d left it around a cloven pig’s foot.

She brushed the smooth pearls against her lips. And for some reason sucked a few into her mouth as well. They were cold and flavorless against her tongue, but absolutely smooth.

There was an old Celierian proverb: mind what you pray for, the gods may grant it.

She’d been praying for the Mad King her entire life. Well—she had him now, at least in claiming. She had the man who devoured the world for the love of another woman. A man who could not give up that love. Lord of Light help her, not that she _wanted_ him to. It seemed wrong to ask him to abandon something that had defined him as a person, the thing that she had admired most when obsessing about him. Which left her… somewhere.

And she’d have to deal with that the best she could. Even if it meant that she would have the man, but not his heart.

It might break her, but she’d deal with it the best she could.

And if he could convince the world that a pig could be a queen - she could convince herself that she could love a man who longed for another. It was all about willpower. Intent. Confidence. Audacity.

And maybe that was what the pearls meant.

* * *

At half-past seven, the Archerons broke their fast. They prayed, sat down, waited for Sol to finish his meal, then was halfway between eating themselves when someone knocked on the front door. “I’ll get it, you eat, sit, sit,” He said, waving them away and trailing pipe smoke as he made his way to the front door.

Feyre followed, if only because this morning’s porridge had been made by Elain and was too salty for her taste. 

She saw the man at the doorstep, impeccably garbed in expensive gold-embroidered livery. There were not many people who could dress like that, and most stayed at the castle.

He gave them a bow. “You are Sol Archeron, merchant?” He had a deep, beautiful voice.

Her father cleared his throat, choked a bit on the pipe still wedged in between his lips, then had a coughing fit. Feyre came forward and patted his back - taking the pipe out of his mouth so he wouldn’t inhale more - and said, “He is.”

The man looked at her, eyeing her face. She could tell that he wasn’t very impressed, maybe even disappointed, as his eyes snapped back to her coughing Papa. “Father of Feyre Archeron?”

“What do you want?” Feyre asked. She put the pipe in her mouth and took a few soothing hits. It felt like one of those days.

The messenger - for he had to be a messenger - clicked his mirror-polished black heels together and bowed even deeper than before. “Then it is my honor, privilege, and duty, Ser Archeron, to present you with this royal summons.” He held out a rolled parchment tied with a blue satin ribbon - a ribbon worth a fortune! - and sealed with a glob of golden wax bearing the royal crest. “You and your family are to make your appearance by ten today.”

Papa started choking more, and Feyre patted his back as she took the parchment in one hand and puffed harder on the pipe. “Did it tell you why?” She asked, mouth muffled as she clenched the end between her teeth like Papa often did.

The messenger looked to her, then away. It was not acceptable for anyone of his station—even as a messenger—to be talking to an unwed poor women. It was both socially awkward for him and would place said women in the position of ruining their honor; something about how women of Feyre's station couldn’t tell a man of his station no if he happened to want a tumble in the hay.

Of course, that was a _very_ old tradition that most men and women didn’t follow because it was downright archaic. Most people on held onto the tradition when they didn’t want to talk to said woman because they didn’t find her pretty.

“Right, right, go then.” She waved the man off. Then shut the door in his face.

She as just turning back to Sol - Lauriana calling out what the business was about from the kitchen - when there was another knock. She opened it to see the messenger again. “A convey has been provided for your leisure.” He stood up and waved to a massive covered coach with beautiful blue paint. Six - why six? - matched gray horses stood patiently in their harness and were at the present shitting in the street.

Feyre looked behind her. Towards Cassian and his wings. “It will not fit my guards.” She told the messenger.

“We will run beside it.” Cassian said. Lucien closed his mouth, then started to pout.

“Won’t that be hard?”

“No, we will welcome the exercise. There has not been much opportunity for it these past few days.”

"Yeah. Because we're supposed to be on _vacation_." Lucien groused, his one good eye rolling towards the ceiling.

“Right then. Okay.” Feyre slammed the door closed again - aware of the messenger there, gawking at Cassian and Lucien - without looking at man.

“What’s going on then!” Lauriana yelled out. “And Sol, for the Lord of Light’s sake, drink some water!”

A glass of water appeared out of a gust of red magic and was given to Sol. Feyre thanked Cassian before heading towards the kitchen with the missive.

“Mama, you won’t believe - ”

“How many times have I told you not to smoke, girl?” Lauriana said, exasperated. She had apparently decided to abandon her own porridge and was wrists deep in tonight’s bread. “It stains the teeth and makes you smell like a man. Isaac won't like it.”

“Oh, we can’t have _that_.” Elain muttered. She was hunched over her porridge, apparently still on the outs with Lauriana. 

Feyre took in a deep inhale, then blew it out, manipulating her mouth so a ring of smoke left it and expanded before surrounding Elain's face.

Lauriana gave her a warning glare. “What’s this about, then?”

“Royal summons.” Sol said from behind. “At ten.”

“What?” Lauriana froze for a moment, before throwing down the bread. “We haven’t any time! Girls, come with me right now. Oh, I hope your fine dresses are clean. And you, Feyre, don’t just stand there smoking, get ready. Your finest dress, my dear. Go.” She herself rushed up the back steps, not realizing there was still dough on her fingers.

"The palace?" Elain asked, moving to get out of her seat. "Seriously? We'll get to meet the Queens?"

Nesta slammed her book shut, the gust of hair moving the strands of hair that had escaped from her bun. "There goes my morning."

The twins both headed up, and Sol, taking back his pipe, moved to finish the leftover breakfast with a heavy sigh.

“It’s the Rhysand’s doing, isn’t it?” Feyre asked, turning to Cassian behind her. He nodded slightly.

He was so proud, so sad. And alone. There was a dark shadow in his eyes that separated him from the others, as well as a physical distance that not even Lucien seemed to want to broach. And something about that self-imposed loneliness struck a cord with her own aching heart.

No one should feel so alone.

She reached forward, ignoring his nearly imperceptible flinch as her fingers found his cheek. The ache of his soul was stronger when she touched him. Deep and riveted with age, he wasn’t so much a man anymore, but a ghost clinging to the memories of what it was like to be a man.

She could remember the tales of him. Of his valor, and his strength, and how he had thrown himself in the thicket of battles to divert attention away from his men. The Lord of Bloodshed, they'd called him. Because of his red magic and the way he used his swords. She could feel, vaguely, the person that used to exist in those stories, as if feeling color that had bleached from the sun. All those acts of bravery and strength had ruined his soul. Weighed him down so he was forced to hide.

She wished she could know the man he used to be, the man she had heard about- 

A bit of static electricity passed from her fingers to his cheek as they touched. He flinched totally from her then, taking several steps back as his eyes widened. And his skin - his soul brightness always muted for some reason - flared to life with more blinding purity than she’d ever seen on anyone but the _shei’dalin_.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off as Cassian threw back his head and laughed. It was deep and unselfconscious and had Lucien gaping like a fish out of water. Feyre was pretty sure she was doing the same thing.

Cassian's voice shook with humor as he spoke. “Of my own free will, Feyre Archeron, I pledge my life and my soul to your protection.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice.” Feyre said, feeling awkward. She wondered at the change in his personality. Instead of cold, hard hazel eyes, she was greeted with warm ones, crinkled at the sides as they smiled.

He drew out one of the black knives strapped to his bandolier. Then he slit the meat of his thumb and poured the blood over the blade. Feyre was about to speak again, to ask him if he had gone insane, when Cassian said, “This I do swear with my own life’s blood and on the Cauldron's mist. I do ask that this pledge be witnessed.”

Lucien stood dumbfounded. But when Cassian looked over his shoulder to look at him, he startled, and said, "Witnessed. _Aiyah_. But..."

"It's done."

The blade flared brightly for a moment. Then Cassian offered the bloody thing to her, hilt first. “Rhysand will always be there to protect you, but know I'll be there too. Just pour a little blood on my _elf'cha_ and I'll come running." He gave her an encouraging smile and wobbled the blade at her. "Come on, it won't bite. Take it."

Feyre looked at the knife. At him. At Lucien who seemed just as confused with what was going on.

With nothing else to do, she grabbed the knife, the hilt already sticky from the blood. She could remember what it had felt like to be completely covered, head to foot, in drying blood. How it had made her skin itch and how the fine, tiny hairs on her body she had never bothered to notice before felt like they were ripping from her skin from any movement.

The second she could, she would wash the blade, and her hands.

She took a step back, wondering what else was going to happen. Maybe Cassian would throw down some magic-made gauntlet and there would be a fight over honor? Or he would declare to slay some mighty beast to show his courage and strength? Maybe he would just get another personality change.

Nothing happened. Cassian watched her. Lucien looked back and forth between her and Cassian. And she inched back.

So Feyre turned tail and fled. She vowed it would be the last time she touched a Fae warrior.

* * *

Cassian

When Feyre was gone, Cassian turned to Lucien. Tiny tremors were shaking his body, but he was warm. Warmer than he'd felt in a long, long time. 

There was a hot spark on his cheek, where Feyre had touched him and suffused him with some strange, warm, light magic. And in his chest, he could feel his soul, brighter than it had ever been before. Almost as pure as a child's.

Even the strongest _shei'dalin_ , Marissya, couldn't bear to touch him. She couldn't even bare to touch Az after he had been in contact with him.

Cas had respected Feyre for being able to so much as look into his eyes, but when she'd reached up to touch him, all the respect had fled into relief. He’d thought: _Rhys will kill me for smudging his mate’s soul_. The thought had been a relief. He was tired of being so cold. Tired of being alone. Tired of remembering what it was like to feel emotions, but still confused by the display of them. So he had let her touch him. And glorified in how it would speed up his honor-death.

Yet, something else entirely had happened.

His darkness hadn’t smudged her. It had flowed into her, been absorbed by her, and she had pushed back. It had felt like the time he had fallen in battle and been gutted by a sword, his innards laying outside of his body, his body heavy and head pounding. Feyre had flayed him like that. Quick as quick. And then, somehow, she had healed him.

Cas turned to Lucien and slapped the boy on the shoulder hard enough to have him sway on his feet. It was a bad stance. Cas would have to train him out of that. "Always knew Rhy's had good taste, but fuck. This girl is something else." Definitely not human. No human could have the powers Feyre did.

"What - how - what -"

Cas snorted. He'd always liked Lucien, even if he was a bit of a prat. But Cas couldn't really blame him. If he'd had the brother's Lucien did, he'd be a prat too. 

"She's powerful," Cas said, looking at the ceiling where he heard Feyre moving around. Or was it one of the other girls? The mean, bitchy one with the ice in her veins? She'd make a good soldier if women were allowed to fight.

Cas stilled. That was the first time he had looked at a woman and saw more than just a person to avoid, or a creature he couldn’t understand. Not only was he thinking about people as people again but… he was dreaming again.

There were possibilities his new soul offered. He had maybe a good thousand, two thousand years left of life now, even if he didn't find his own mate to heal his soul. Which meant... which meant he could continue his political campaign. He could train. He could love. He could… live.

"She's -" Cauldron boil him, he was crying. But it felt good to do it. Cleansing.

Lucien made a choked sound, and Cas let his shoulder go to look more fully towards the sounds from upstairs. "She's more than just powerful, Lucien. I think she may just be it. I think she'll be the one to fix it." 

The only question was, who in the ever-living Cauldron was Feyre Archeron?

* * *

Feyre

Despite arriving at the Palace early, they were escorted into a private waiting room in the Palace’s main floor. Elain busied herself with the sweets laid out of them, seeming to overstuff herself every time Lauriana made a point to tell her to stop. And Nesta, who had brought her book with her, had found a lonely chair in the sunlight to enjoy. Though she seemed to be doing very little reading, her eyes constantly jumping up to narrow on the figure of Cassian, Lord of Bloodshed.

“We called ourselves the ‘Court of Dreamers’,” He was saying, enjoying his own plate of sweets. His dramatic personality change seemed to be holding, and he had an almost permanent smile on his rough, masculine features as he perched himself on a small stool.

“Called yourself?” Lucien scoffed. “You were branded.”

“True, true.” Cassian laughed, and in her chair, Nesta jumped. “It was meant to be a joke. We were dreamers, every last one of us.”

“Insane, is what you were.” Lucien muttered.

“You see,” Cassian leaned forward, grinning wickedly. He had a way about him, a natural charisma, and Feyre found herself leaning towards him too to hear his slightly hushed words. Lauriana – who had been purposefully trying to ignore them by looking out the window – turned her head. And Elain stopped stuffing a pastry in her face. “We were outcasts and vagrants. Fools, they called us. There were five of us and we all wanted things to change.”

Feyre frowned. She knew from the stories that the fae did not change. They were so long-lived that tradition held strong because elders continuously held seats of power.

And yet, Cassian and his Court of Dreamers had managed it, hadn’t they? There hadn’t been a King of Fae before Rhysand. And the stories were all very vague about how that change had happened, she’d never thought to question it.

“I was an orphaned Illyrian, thrown into the camps a bit too early. Savage, they called me. Mean.” He pulled back his teeth and snapped his fangs. “And Az, he was the bastard son of a lord. His story is his to tell, though if you do every manage to get a look at his hands, I’m sure he’d tell it to you. Oh, and there was Morrigan.” Cas paused a bit, his hazel eyes deepening. “Her story is also hers to tell.”

“Not that you’d ever get to hear it. She disappeared as soon as the war was over.” Lucien muttered. He had a weird look on his face, his features pinched.

“She was tired after the war. Exhausted, really. She wandered off on her own adventure. I like to think she’s basking in sunshine, with a few beautiful women on her arms.” Cassian winked. “Though I suppose when we all head back to Prythian, I’ll take the time to go look for her and drag her happy ass back to the war-camps.”

“The war camps?” Feyre asked, confused. If she had decided to leave because of war, why bring her to war-camps?

“Cassian had this insane idea that women should fight.”

“ _What_.” Elain asked, her eyes widening. “Women, fighting?”

Lauriana scoffed and returned back to her window to watch the day go by.

Feyre wondered what it would be like to know how to fight. To have a skill she could rely on, one that no one could take away or doubt. She rather liked the idea. And her hand slipped between the folds of her green gown to grab the sheath her gifted _elf’cha_ was in. Cassian’s eyes didn’t miss the movement.

“I could teach you.” He offered. He spoke the words low enough that Lauriana, across the room, didn’t hear. But Elain did, her breath hitching and her eyes swinging over to Feyre, impossibly wide.

“I…” She looked at her mother, then away. She knew she was making a bad decision as she said, “I would like that.” But she couldn’t stop herself from _wanting_ it.

“Good.” Cassian leaned back, his hands on his thighs and his wings flaring a bit on either side of him. “Then there was Amren. Don’t know her? Ah, a shame that history never thought to write her name down.”

“Probably because all the historians were too scared.” Lucien muttered.

“She’s… different. A criminal with a love for expensive things. I’ll leave it at that.” A crooked, devious smile filled Cassian’s face. “You’ll like her, I know you will.”

“She’s in Prythian, isn’t she? It’s not as if I’d meet her.”

Cassian’s hazel eyes glittered, his crooked smile growing even more pronounced. “Ah, see, that’s where your wrong. Because I haven’t mentioned the last member of our illustrious group of rebels, yet. Our leader. You see, once he sets his sights on something, he gets it. He’s a schemer, Rhysand. And unashamedly underhanded about his tactics, too.” Cassian crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll be in Prythian within the year. That’s my bet.”

“Absolutely _not_.” Lauriana said. She seemed to have had enough, and she stood up, walking towards them. “Enough of this. I liked it better when you were silent – my daughter is _not_ going to forsake her vows to the Lord of Light or to her husband by going to some magic-cursed country.”

Cassian waved her off. “Settled down, honored one. The best, most stubborn, and most cunning have tried going toe to toe with Rhysand and have lost, I’m not sure what you could do.”

Lauriana froze, her face slowly turning red. She started to speak, but Feyre lost her voice as she felt – Rhysand. He was near. In the castle, maybe.

“You feel him?” Cassian asked. He seemed to have cut Lauriana off, and the woman stood there, face red, fists at her side, with a strangely desperate look in her eyes.

“I, I do.” Feyre admitted. She didn’t know what she would do when she saw him again, but she had a feeling she would be seeming him very soon.

Cassian nodded. “It’s impressive. He’s holding his power in.”

“He is?”

“Oh yeah, when he lets it go…” Cassian whistled. “You can feel it for miles. His breath mingles with the wind and tide. His footsteps shake the ground and make the trees and plants flourish. His emotions change the weather.”

“Prythian felt like the Hell Realm before Azriel took over.” Lucien muttered. “Nothing but earthquakes and thunderstorms and deep cracks in the earth. All the elements fighting against one another.”

“He can’t be _that_ powerful.” Elain said, her voice a near whisper. She was leaning forward, her pastry melting in her hands.

“Oh, but he is. The most powerful of the powerful. Bit infuriating, really. But that’s not why we follow him. We follow him because he’s got a good heart.” Cassian tapped over his own. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen much of it, lately, but it’s there.”

Feyre knew those tales, she’d often –

The doors opened wide. Lucien turned as guards came into the room, and one announced, “Her Majesty Queen Annoura of Celieira.”

One of the Queens.

Everyone was up in an instant, and Feyre felt Cassian’s wings almost brush against her skirts as she bowed next to Elain to curtsy.

“Please, rise.” A smooth voice said. “Master Archeron, a pleasure to meet you at last.”

As Sol replied, Feyre rose from her curtsey. The Queen Annoura was an elderly woman, with heavy wrinkles in her deep, richly brown skin. Yet her posture was as straight and regal as Nesta’s, even with the dripping weight of sapphires and diamonds on her that would have cost the yearly wave of the entire West End market district.

The Queen was a testament to privilege. And Feyre wondered how a pig could possibly compare.

“And you, you must be Feyre.” The Queen walked over to her, smiling gently. There was something cold about her gaze as she extended on long-fingered hand, her wrist limp yet somehow still poised. Every finger had a bright, shining ring on it. “My dear, I have heard quite a lot about you.”

Feyre placed her fingers under the woman’s. “Your Majesty.” She touched the hand to her forehead, careful to not lift the woman’s hand. “It’s an honor, though I’m still not certain why we’re even here.”

The Queen flipped her hand as Feyre rose, so she could pet the top of Feyre’s head like she was a dog. “Patience is a virtue, my dear.” Her smile was as cold as her gaze. “Though in truth, I should be eating my words. I couldn’t stand my curiosity any longer, I just had to meet the Fae King’s mate.” She considered Feyre. “I would have thought the Fae would have seen to your dress before bringing you to the Palace, of all places.”

“They’re job is not to make me pretty, Your Majesty. It is to protect me. I would never ask of them a thing that lessens their importance because of mere…” She looked over the woman’s glittering visage. “Trivialities.”

They both ignored Lauriana’s sharp inhale of breath.

That did not seem to make the Queen warm to Feyre. No, instead, it became obvious why Queen Annoura was called the Ice Queen. “I suppose a fine dress wouldn’t have changed the situation at hand, anyway. But please, dear, pay no mind to the gossiping tongues.”

“I’ve never minded them before.”

The Queen nodded, then began to turn. “You will remain here until you’re called. I trust that you have no objection, Ser Archeron? No? Good.” And then the Queen was disappearing into her guards.

“Feyre Lee!” Lauriana nearly flew across the room once the doors had closed, maternal outrage filling her eyes. “What were you thinking, speaking like that to the Queen? I never raised you to be so rag-mannered!”

“She was a bitch bitchy herself.” Elain offered.

“Feyre spoke well.” Cassian said, cutting Lauriana off from whatever she was about to say. His wicked smile was on his lips. “As a Queen speaks to a Queen.”

Lauriana’s mouth closed. And that desperate, aching look filled her eyes again before she turned to look out the window.

* * *

They were called on three hours later, escorted by liveried servant to a massive set of doors manned by two footmen and a small, pinched-nosed man. Four royal guards flanked the doors, spears in hand, swords at hips, their eyes trained on Cassian and Lucien.

The pinched-nosed man looked at the Archeron family, seemed to almost frown, and then motioned to have the doors opened. As they did, he announced in a surprisingly strong, clear voice, “Master and Madam Archeron. Mistress Feyre Archeron. Mistress Nesta Archeron. Mistress Elain Archeron.”

Sol stumbled a little as he walked forward, and realized what room they were in.

The Celierian throne room.

And it wasn’t empty.

A wide blue carpet led from the doors all the way to the dais, where six enormous thrones sat in a vaulted space. Hundreds of people stood in the crowded masses on either side of the carpet, dressed richly, while balconies above them held even more. Guards – an innumerable amount of guards – stood at attention along the walls, and ringed around the dais. Next to Queen Annoura – easily the eldest of all the Queens – stood Marissya, the Truthspeaker, and her mate Azriel.

Sol managed to find his feet as a shadow zipped almost imperceptibly through the air and into Cassian’s chest. Feyre only noticed it because he stood beside her, and he grunted as the shadow hit his chest, swirled around him, and then shot back towards Azriel.

Azriel, who was staring at Cassian as if he’d seen a ghost.

Feyre and her family walked down the carpet. There were two rows of benches on either side, and they moved to the unoccupied one on the right – while Feyre noted the Hale family sitting on the left.

They weren’t just here in the throne room. They were here during _court_.

Only severe matters of state was ever presented before the Queen’s at court. Cases that handled unfathomable amount of money, or obscene acres of land, or inheritance to shocking titles of nobility.

Feyre’s eyes shot over to the Hales, before she followed her sisters into a curtsey before the Queens. There was Annoura, and then a middle-aged Queen in black with a rough, craggy face. And another middle-aged Queen in white, with a round, sweet face. Younger than them was a black-haired Queen with a bored, cunning look to her eyes, and an even younger one with curly golden hair that contrasted sharply with brown, freckled skin. Out of all of them, Feyre only knew Queen Annoura – the famed Ice Queen – and Queen Demetra – the famed Lioness of Celieria.

The sixth throne sat empty.

The Arhceron family sat as the Steward of the Court gave it to the first Queen on the left – the sweetly smiling one with chubby cheeks – he said, “Goodman Hale. Yesterday you petitioned the court to validate the betrothal contract between yourself and Mistress Feyre Archeron, and also peititoned the courts for a special license to wed her immediately. Is this correct?”

Feyre’s head jerked over to watch Isaac stand. He had tried to fast-track their marriage? Why? He stood there, his chin held high, his curls flopping onto his forehead. “It is true, Your Majesties.”

“Oooohh – this is so exciting!” Elain squealed, as Nesta’s fingers dug into Feyre’s forearm and she hissed, “The _fool_.”

“You have the betrothal contract signed by the girl’s father?” The Steward asked.

“I do.” He handed it to the Steward, who handed it to the smiling Queen. The first bit of parchment had slowly made it’s way down the line, and sat in the empty seat of the missing Queen.

“And the girl bears your Mark?” He asked.

“She does.”

“Is your contracted betrothed in this courtroom?”

“She is.” Isaac looked at Feyre, and the ambition in his eyes didn’t seem nearly as charming as it had before. “That is my betrothed, Feyre Archeron.”

“Thank you, Goodman Hale, you may sit.” Isaac sat. “And Master Archeron.” Sol jerked upwards in his pew. “Did you sign a betrothal contract promising your daughter in marriage to Isaac Hale?”

Sol’s shoulders jerked up towards his ear. “I did, Your Majesties.”

“Thank you, you may sit.” Sol nearly collapsed back into his seat, and immediately Lauriana lifted her arm to hug him into her side, her hand rubbing up and down his arm.

“Feyre Archeron.” The Steward looked between the three girls, and almost settled on Elain before Feyre stood.

“Yes.”

“Do you bear Isaac Hale’s Mark on your person?”

She took a deep breath through her nose. She didn’t technically bear his Mark anymore, since it had been healed off her skin from Marissya’s touch. The one she displayed over the collar of her dress was Rhysand’s. But the technicalities wasn’t what the Steward was asking for. He was asking if the Mark had been placed. “I do.”

“And were you aware of what such a Mark would mean at the time it was placed on you?”

She could lie. It was on the tip of her tongue – if she claimed she had no idea what Isaac was doing, then the contract could come into question. In Celieria, a sold daughter had to at least have knowledge of the selling. That’s what the Mark was for. But Feyre knew what would happen after, the court-hearing would be postponed, and Feyre would be ‘examined’ for her virginity. When they found it was gone, her family would be in an even worse position than before.

So she said, “I did.”

“You may sit.”

Feeling wronged, Feyre sat.

“Goodman Hale,” Isaac jerked to his feet as the young, black haired Queen spoke. She had a strange cadence to her voice. “Celierian laws and customs regarding betrothals and betrothal contracts are clear and immutable, as we are certain you are well aware. So clear and immutable, in fact, that you should not have found it necessary to file your early petition. But your case has extenuating circumstances, does it not? Circumstances that we see you have excluded purposefully from this court hearing.” Isaac’s face started to heat up.

“It has been brought to our attention that these circumstances alter the very nature of your case from a simple civil dispute to a potentially explosive diplomatic relations issue, one that could threaten our very national security. Hence, we have brought you to the Supreme Court to hear out this case. But you have neglected to mention it in your statement filed for this petition. Why?”

“I –” Isaac’s face heated more. “But… Your Majesty – “

“Take your seat, Goodman.” The Queen said, her bored gaze lifting away from him.

“There is another who would address this court.” The sweet faced Queen said. She waved a chubby hand towards the massive doors at the back of the room, just as they began to swing open.

Feyre had felt him coming, felt his presence like a trickle in the back of her mind, so she was the first to stand and turn as the pinch-nosed man announced, “His Esteemed Majesty, Rhysand, The Fae King, Harbinger of Darkness, Child of the Cauldron.”

“Dear Lord of _Light_.” One woman gasped. “He is magnificent.”

And he was. Striding forward, he seemed to be everything she had ever dreamed about as a girl.

Tall, broad shouldered, lean of muscle and thick of frame, there was an intensely perfect quality to Rhysand. He exuded a dangerous, sharp beauty with the curling black smoke that rose from his frame and glowing skin.

He was, however, not wearing the fine collection of jewels and riches that other royalty tended to wear. He only wore a crown, which sat almost irreverently on his head. Instead of jewels, his wealth seemed to be concentrated in fine, exotic Fae cut of his clothes, which amplified the cut muscles of his frame.

He wasn’t just a King and his station. He was powerful, sexual, self-assured.

Halfway down the carpet, his stride smooth and self-assured, Rhysand’s violet eyes snapped towards Cassian. His eyes widened, and the darkness that leaked off of him curled and misted over the ground. It reached for Cassian, but a large section of darkness _grew_ from Azriel, connecting with the larger body.

She felt the magic but wasn’t sure what it was doing. It felt like voices were whispering just out of hearing.

Rhysand stopped before the Queens. He gave them a small head nod, as one royal does to another.

And the whispering ended. A strange, lingering sensation lasted, like laughter, which somehow morphed itself into a very immense, very pleased talon that ghosted across Feyre’s mind. _Darling Feyre, you’re a gift_. His mental words were a purr, a caress, which slid across her skin.

“Cold?” Elain asked, when she noticed Feyre shiver. “Here, my shawl.” Feyre took it because there was no way to deny it.

“The King of the Fae has approached us with a petition of his own.” Queen Demetra said. Her voice was strong enough to cut through the loud din of the court. She only spoke again when the silence had resumed. “One that has made us reconsider the validation and license granted to Goodman Hale yesterday. We have invited the Fae King to give testimony.”

The court grew loud again, and only stilled as Queen Demetra said, “King Rhysand, you have stated that you have a claim on Feyre Archeron that supersedes our laws and you have petitioned us to dissolve the betrothal contract between Isaac hale and Feyre Archeron. Is this correct?”

“It is.” He said, his hands sliding into clever little pockets in his pants.

“What is the nature of this claim which you say supersedes our laws?” Queen Annoura asked.

“Feyre Archeron is my _shei’tani_. My mate.”

The sweet Queen leaned forward a bit. “Please explain to the court what a mate is.”

“A mate,” Rhysand said, his head turning to look at Feyre. “Is the person who holds the other half of one’s soul.” Though longing didn’t enter his proud face or voice, there was something like it in his gaze. Little bits of stars were appearing in the violet expanses of his eyes as he spoke to her. “Is it a sacred bond, which strengthens each side as they become one cohesive whole.”

“Feyre Arheron in Celierian, and is therefore not subject to your laws and customs but to ours.” Queen Annoura said. Rhysand’s gaze snapped back towards the row of Queens. “Though she may indeed by your mate, she is legally betrothed to Isaac hale according to our laws. He has prior claim, which he is obviously unwilling to renounce.”

“Yet the betrothal must be dissolved. I understand your ways. I will pay Isaac hale and his family restitution for their loss under the promise that, when the betrothal is fully broken, the Archeron family’s honor will not be impeached.”

Queen Annoura leaned forward just a bit. “And if it is not dissolved?”

On the outside of the bench, Cassian chuckled a little.

“Regardless of your human customs, laws, or ways,” Rhysand said, his voice a strange, almost sexual caress, “She is my mate. She is the other half o my soul. You cannot keep me from her, only make it more difficult, or easier.” He held up one hand as Annoura opened her mouth. “let me make this simple. She is my soul. Any harm that comes to my soul – like keeping its holder from me – is hard to me. Any harm to me is harm to the Fae. To pretend as if this human,” Rhysand looked at Isaac, his well-formed lips curling into a smile, “Has any sway over her is to challenge my people’s most sacred practice.” He looked back at the Queens. “I’ll simplify it more for you. Keeping me from her is an act of war.”

The court again burst into life, like an angry hive of bees.

“If I may!” Feyre stood up. It took a while for the clamor to die down. In that time, Lauriana leaned across Nesta to grab Feyre’s sleeve, that desperate look back in her eyes. As Feyre looked at her, she realized it was fear. Pure, unadulterated fear.

Feyre looked away. She spoke again as the court died down. “I would like to speak my own words to this testimony, Your Majesties.”

“Please,” Queen Demetra said. “Step forward.”

Feyre slid past Elain and walked with Cassian to the front of the room. She felt the weight of everyone’s gaze on her as she stood beside Rhysand. And then he took a step closer to her. Enough that she could feel the heat of his body, feel the vibration of a – a pur? – that exited somewhere near his chest.

“The timeline of my betrothal is questionable, Your Majesties. Isaac Hale has Marked me, and the betrothal papers were signed by not processed by the time that King Rhysand _also_ Marked me.” Which put into question the marriage license itself.

There was an audible uproar. Feyre had basically called herself a two-timing whore. But it was better than being ‘that one silly girl who made the Mad King threaten war on Celieria’.

“ _That_ is a Mark?” Rhysand demanded. “He put his mouth on you?”

“Hush.” She snapped, her eyes straining to see what the Queens were thinking. Demetra seemed to be sympathetic, and so was the sweet one – but it was obvious that Annoura was furious as the cunning one was bored out of her mind. The scowling, craggy one she didn’t know.

If the last Queen were here – Vassa, the flame Queen – was here, they might have a chance. The woman was known to be a political powerhouse. But without her-

Rhysand got louder. “What else has he done with you?” His voice had magic backing it, the sound echoing around the chamber. “Has he –”

Feyre put her hand on his flapping mouth. Leaning in very close, she narrowed her eyes at his shining violet ones. The stars that had been there seconds ago were gone, now. “Shut. Up.” She waited until the wildness left his eyes. His shoulders loosened. His body stilled. There seemed to be a lift to his cheekbones just before his tongue left his mouth to lick her palm.

_With pleasure, Feyre-darling._

She turned back to the Queens, her hand still on Rhysand’s mouth. “Apologies, Your Majesties. I’m still working on his manners.”

Hysterical, edgy laughter rang out through the court, dissolving some of the tension. Queen Demetra nodded again for Feyre to continue. “As my testimony puts doubt on the marriage license, a restitution to the Hales should be more than adequate without infringing upon our clear and immutable laws.”

Grabbing her wrist to free his mouth, Rhysand motioned with his other hand to the back of the room. The doors opened once more, and two fae warriors bearing a huge chest between them came forward. They brought it to the front of the room and, at Rhysand’s signal, put it before the Hale’s bench and opened the lid. Inside was gold and jewels, enough wealth to dower a princess several times over.

“Bit much, don’t you think?” Feyre asked, voice low.

Rhysand took her hand in his and pressed it to his chest. His heartbeat was clear and steady, his warmth seeping from him, through his clothes, and into her own skin.

“I had to make it look appealing, didn’t I?” His smile was wan, a bit boyish. He turned back to the Hales, who were staring at the chest of gold with massive eyes. “Do you accept,” Rhysand asked, “Knowing full and well that if you accept restitution the marriage license is voided?”

“Yes!” Isaac’s parents cried, even as Isaac himself shouted out a “No!”

Gothar cuffed his son on the side of the head. “Quiet, boy. That’s a flaming fortune before you. More money than you’ll see in a lifetime. No girl’s worth losing that.” The butcher nodded to Rhysand, though he couldn’t seem to quiet land his eyes on the Fae King. “We agree totally. The marriage license is void.”

Rhysand looked back to the Queen’s. “And do you, Queens of Celieria, dissolve the betrothal between Feyre Arhceron and Isaac Hale, holding the Archeron family blameless of any wrongdoing?”

“King Rhysand.” The cunning, bored Queen drawled out. “You have indeed stated your case. The Hales have accepted your payment, and yet I don’t recall hearing Master Archeron grant you the right to break the betrothal on his behalf.” She looked past the dais. “Have you given this right to the Fae King, Master Archeron?”

“What does your father have to do with this?” Rhysand asked, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“I am my father’s daughters. His property under Celierian law.” Feyre shrugged. “It is his right to give me away.”

“Humans.” Rhysand muttered, obviously disgusted. “They can’t get over the sentiment of slavery even if they’ve abolished the practice.” He looked towards Sol, as Feyre did, to see Sol standing on his feet. Her papa’s eyes were on Feyre’s hand, trapped on Rhysand’s chest.

“No, Your Majesty.” Sol said in a clear, sad voice. “I have not given him the right.”

“Ah. So it seems, Rhysand, you are incorrect in your assumption that the betrothal is broken merely because the groom’s family accepts your very large bribe.” Queen Annoura smiled coldly. “Perhaps you are not so familiar with Celierian laws as you thought.”

Rhysand smiled. It wasn’t a cold smile, but it was somehow more threatening than the Queen’s. “Only because I did not think that a country who prided itself on its Monarchy mistreated their women as if they were second class citizens. It is my mistake.” Shocked voices in the back were clearly ignored as he turned to Sol again. “You will grant me this right, Honored One.”

“Sol—Sol…” Lauriana tugged at her husband’s sleeve but didn’t stand herself. Her voice was an urgent whisper that Fyere could hear clearly. “Don’t do it. Think of Feyre, of what’s best for her. You can’t mean to cede her over to these… these Godless sorcerers. You’ll destroy her. They’ll corrupt her soul. Everything we’ve ever done to keep her safe will be lost.”

Feyre tried to tug her hand away, but Rhysand kept it firmly against his chest. And when she tried harder, he wed his fingers with her own. His free hand came up to slide against the base of her neck and tilt her head away from her parents whispered argument—so she was forced to look into his eyes. “Do you want me, Feyre?”

“I—” What kind of question was that? But she could tell it was earnest. He really wanted to know. Wanted to know it far more than Sol’s answer, or the Queens’ answer, or the Hales’ answer.

Sometimes, it was hard to remember that he was doing this because he had to, not because he truly, deeply wanted to be with her.

“I want… I want a man I don’t think you are, Rhysand.” He flinched, as if she’d hit him. His eyes grew wide and his lips parting. A bit of blood seemed to leak out of his ears. Why were his ears bleeding?

“I—I mean only that I’ve been in love with you since I can remember.” Feyre said, worried at the blood she saw. “I’ve dreamed about you coming for me and telling me that I’m yours since I was a little girl. I’d daydream of you all the time. Read stories of your heroics and your life. I am, well, absolutely besotted.” It was somehow easy, admitting her life-long crush to him.

“That is the bond.” Rhysand said through gritted teeth. “Your soul called out. Mine answered. All that’s left for you is to give me your soul or reject me.”

Which again begged his question—did she want him?

The pain etched on his face, in his glowing aura, in the touch of his fingers and the scream of his mind made her shake her head. “That’s – it’s too soon. I don’t know –” She didn’t know him. She didn’t know if she could handle loving a man who didn’t love her. More than that, she wasn’t sure if she could be with someone as insane as she was. What if Lauriana was right? What if his darkness fed her own? What if she lost herself again?

“Feyre,” He crooned her name, stepping closer to her body. His hand drifted down to press against her lower back. “I’m not asking you to jump all the way in now. I’m asking you for a chance. Do you want to give it to me? Do you want me to prove that I can be the man you want me to be?”

She frowned at him. “What about the man that you _are_ , Rhysand?”

Pain, sharp and acute, moved through him and into her. She gritted her teeth and held her ground, not wanting to admit that his pain hurt worse than anything she’d ever done to herself, worse than any nightmare and fear.

“And what if I’m not a good man?” Rhysand’s voice was nothing more than a harsh whisper. “If I am dangerous, and dark, and being with me is not easy? What if I bring danger into your life, and you question how I’m capable of the things I’m capable of?”

She was reminded of his smile, crooked and broken and unfamiliar on his face. She was reminded of the horror she’d felt when she realized what she was doing to Isaac by agreeing to marry him. She was reminded of her own troubled soul.

Feyre licked her lips, and his gaze moved down to watch the glide of her tongue before going back to her eyes. “When I was a little girl – ” She cut herself off. She wanted to share what she knew, but telling him too much was dangerous. “The priests wanted to help me. They were stirred by my mother’s love for me. So they sat me in a room and placed a mirror in front of me. It was covered in cloth, and they told me I could only remove it once they were safely behind the mirror’s back. In it… I saw…” _Me._

She shuddered. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t share that much with him. And yet there was something there, a weird tugging sensation in her sternum, and with it, the image of her inner monster seemed to leap out of her and into him.

Rhysand’s violet eyes burst into stars.

“What if I am just as bad, Rhysand?”

“Then I’ll cherish you, Feyre. I’ll cherish every dark bit of you and celebrate your light.” His starry eyes were like the night sky.

“Your Majesty! Your—King Rhysand!”

Both Feyre and Rhysand looked up towards the Queens. The scowling Queen was scowling. The sweet faced one was leaning towards the cunning one, whispering behind her hand. Demetra was smiling gently, and Annoura was standing, her face coldly annoyed. “Are you present?”

“Yes. Of course.” Rhysand nodded, then turned back to Feyre. “Your answer, I would hear it.”

Feyre turned to her father, realizing she and Rhysand had completely checked out of what was happening in the court. She felt a high blush rise in her face as Sol looked between their close bodies.

She looked back at Rhysand. “I’ll – give it a try.”

Smiling, he looked at Sol. “And you, Honored One? I’d like to have your blessing in this.”

Sol frowned. “I don’t know you, King of Fae, and you don’t know me. But lest you think it has escaped my notice, for all this talk of souls and mating, not once have I heard the word marriage fall from your lips. I did not raise my daughter to be any man’s concubine, even if he is a King. If you want the right to break Feyre’s betrothal, rest assured you will wed her. And I mean by Celierian custom, in a Celirian church, with her family in attendance and a binding marriage contract in my hand.”

“Sol.” Lauriana moaned. “No—her soul—think of her soul!”

Rhysand squeezed Feyre’s back. “What do you say, Feyre-darling? Will you marry me?”

Blushing, feeling her body trembling in his hands, she had to remind herself that she could fall in love with this beautiful, strange, complicated creature before her—but he could not fall in love with her. “I accept.”

“I accept.” Rhysand said, voice louder, towards Sol. Then he looked to Queen Annoura. “I believe now your Celierian laws are satisfied. Feyre’s father has given me the right to offer payment on his behalf. The Hales have accepted. The betrothal is broken.” His smile was savage, his eyes glowing right. “Feyre is mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll post another chpt sometime around Tuesday
> 
> If anyone wants to beta, let me know!


	6. Life, Soul, Steel, And Magic I Do Pledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to runningwater here on A03 - she worked really hard in helping me edit this story. She has an amazing series, "Feysand Things" that you should totally check out! 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningwater/pseuds/runningwater

Isaac 

"Arrogant fae fuckards. Thinking they can come in and take whatever they God's cursed please." Isaac stumbled a bit, the warm froth of his ale sliding across his fingers as he moved to get to the table. "Soul scorched sorcerers." With blurry eyes, he managed to find his table. 

"Could I help you with anything, ser?" The bar wench asked. A pretty woman, with bluer-than-blue eyes. She smiled down at him. "Ser?"

Isaac muttered, "'Nother ale." Though he hadn't had any of this pint yet, a lot of it had spilled on the way over.

"Of course." She paused, not moving from the table. "I couldn't help but overhearing you, Ser." She slid a little closer, and he squinted past the sudden double image of her. "That young woman claimed by the Fae King - she was your bride?"

"My betrothed." Isaac hiccuped, the pain of it sinking deep into his esophagus. "Least she was till that damned bastard stole her from me." He grabbed his drink and moved it to his mouth, feeling the way it slid down his throat and cheeks. 

Months of personal investment - wasted. Months. Sure, they had been fine enough months, but what was the point when he couldn't have the prize? His fool parents had thought that chest of gold a treasure beyond their imagining? Well, obviously they were too stupid to imagine what it would be like to have magic in their family. To want something and just - have it happen.

The woman was still there. He squinted at her. Gods though, she was beautiful. "What's - what's it to you?"

"A matter of interest is all." She had oddly white teeth for a bar wench. All nice and neat in her mouth. "Perhaps I can assist you with that too?"

There was something strange about her vivid blue eyes. Something that made Isaac feel hungry. An odd feeling for a man who couldn't even twitch in his pants. "When do you get off?" He asked, looking down at his ale. If he stopped now, maybe he could get it up in an hour or three. That, or he'd pass out. Whichever came first came first.

"That's not what I meant." She slid easily into the seat across from him. He noticed then that she didn't have a serving tray. Or an apron. All her ice-blond hair tumbled down her back like a river of hair. Such a beautiful woman. Prettier than his Delilah. "My name is Ianthe."

"Isaac." He hiccuped again. "Hale." 

"Isaac," She gave him her pretty, pretty smile. "I want to help you. I'm but a humble servant for a very powerful woman. And we agree that the Fae King has gone too far in placing his will in Celierian politics."

He squinted, his head too fuzzy for this conversation. "Wha-what are you, priests?" Priests were men, weren't they?

"A gesture of goodwill." She slid a piece of paper across the surface, careful not to get it wet in the puddles of ale he had created. Isaac leaned forward, and realized the paper showed another pretty woman. He knew this one. 

"Selianne Pyerson." Isaac grunted.

Wait, wasn't she supposed to be giving him something?

Her smile, that's what she was giving him. Her smile, and the strange bit of darkness inside the pupils of her blue, blue eyes. That darkness seemed to almost be... turning. No. Wait. That was the world spinning. And he was leaning out of his seat.

He grabbed the edge of the table, and tried not to let nausea follow the sudden bout of heartburn he got for his troubles.

"Tell me everything you know about this woman, Goodman Hale. And let's see if we can get you your woman back."

Woman? Who? Delilah was dead-

No, no. They were talking about Feyre. Feyre, with her magic. With her by his side, he could go beyond butchering. He could be King, he bet.

The woman's eyes pulsed blue.

Shrugging, Isaac hiccuped again. "Buy me 'nother round, and I can tell you everything from her middle name to - to -" Hiccup - "How good she fucks." He raised his glass, mourning the spill on his sticky fingers.

Staring at him with her blue eyes, the woman placed a gold coin on the table.

* * *

Rhysand

Two hours after sunset, Rhysand presented himself at the Archeron house. He bowed as Sol answered the door.

Before exiting his bow, Rhysand looked up. Feyre Archeron stood behind her father, her curious blue-grey eyes on him. And she was frowning.

Why would she be upset?

"What are you doing at our home, Fae King?" Sol Archeron asked, drawing Rhysand's attention again. He smelled strongly of pipe smoke.

"I've come to court your daughter, Honored One. To pay humble respects." He waited, then realized that no one was going to answer him. "It typically happens before marriage, doesn't it?"

As soon as the court had ruled its verdict, Lauriana Archeron had approached. "I don't know how it's done in Prythian, but here a Celierian man of honor does not approach an innocent girl and overwhelm her with intimate attention the likes of which no decent unmarried young woman should be subject to! In public, in front of the Queens, no less!" And then she had grabbed her daughters and hauled them away.

He was glad it was the father, not the mother, who had answered the door. It felt a little less like groveling this way.

_ It's not groveling, Rhys _ . But Azriel's mental voice was laughing. 

He looked again to Feyre just over the man's shoulders. To her tightly pressed mouth and still figure. He could remember what it felt like to have her body pressed against his own. The smell and taste of her. 

What was a little groveling for more of that?

Sol took back his attention. The little human man seemed to be gathering himself. "You are a stranger. You have sent other strangers - lethally armed ones at that - into my home to do Lord of Light knows what. You appear to... care may be the wrong word here. You appear to covet my daughter, but that is half the problem. You have not respected her as a man should. You summon my family to a public forum and put our private matters on display for the titillation of the masses. And you've done it all without having the common decency to present yourself to me as a man of honor would!"

Rhysand waited to see if there was more. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

He didn't really appreciate being called dishonorable. Especially because he had only been acting dishonorable to their particularly frustrating standards. But any excuses he could come up with - the newness, his insanity, the love he had to put aside to focus on Feyre - felt flat in his mind.

So he leaned against the doorjamb. "That's why I'm here. To fix my mistakes, Honored One." 

"As for the men I've sent into your home..." Feyre has healed them. Again, he didn't say it, his eyes moving towards her. He wondered how she did it. How could anyone heal a soul from the brink of breaking? That was a gift that just simply wasn't given. It broke the natural cycle of life. 

"Cassian and Lucien are here to protect your daughter - your family - from harm. As you could tell from the crowd of people that have lined your streets," Rhysand looked over his shoulder, seeing that there were even food cart vendors. "There is a lot of attention on you. Attention that could get dangerous."

"Attention you have brought us." Sol said.

"Well, yes." Rhysand shrugged, feeling the wood of the doorjamb scrape against his shoulder a bit. "That brings me to your second point - bringing your personal affairs into court." He considered what he should say, and realized that he had no flowery words to use here. "Your human laws mean nothing to me." Sol's mouth opened, more out of shock than outrage. Again, he was very glad it was him that had opened the door and not the mother. 

“Any male that is not human would have recognized that my claim superseded Isaac Hale's, and could only be challenged by Feyre herself." He nodded to her, hovering in the entryway. "Going to the courts was the only solution I could come up with that didn't end with me snapping heads off shoulders or placing your family in an even more awkward situation. So I went through the human route, and made it all a legal matter instead of an ethical one."

"How kind of you." Feyre murmured.

"So, may I fix the error of my ways?" He presses his hand to his chest. The man looked like he was preparing himself for another speech, so Rhysand got off the doorjamb and gave another bow. "Blessings and peace on the house of my beloved. Life, soul, steel, and magic I do pledge to her protection. May I prove worthy of her trust." He spoke the words first in his language, then in the human tongue.

Once he rose, he explained, "It's traditional words of a courting Fae to his mate's family." He had spoken the words only once before to Elysetta's parents. Around that time Rhysand had just taken the throne, and her parents had been of the Dawn Court, allies of Rhysand's that hadn't taken any damage from his takeover. They had accepted his oath graciously, awe and confusion in their eyes. And Elysetta had beamed beside her family, love and devotion in her eyes.

Now, as Rhysand spoke the words, he was greeted with suspicion, pale faces, and Feyre's gentle frown.

There was another long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Rhysand wondered if Sol would reject his offer, but because of what had happened in the court, doing so would have its own consequences. Ready to wait the mortal out, he put his hands in his pockets.

Finally, Sol nodded. "I welcome you as a suitor for my daughter's hand. And I thank you for honoring my house."

"Good. That's done then. May I come inside?" Rhysand asked.

Sol frowned, but stepped back, allowing Rhysand, Azriel, Marissya, and the few Fae they had brought with them into the small home.

Rhysand immediately walked over to Feyre, who hadn't moved from the entryway. He felt as if he should say something to her, express how-

She reached out to touch his hand, her fingertips touching the backs of his. It was an unconscious gesture, a natural movement from how she sidestepped to walk further into the house. But as their skin connected, Rhysand felt his stomach drop and a sudden rush of feelings touch his mind.

Feyre was so young, so incredibly fierce, so unerringly new to the world - and yet Rhysand was absolutely convinced that he'd destroy anything that would dare to so much as annoy her. If anyone dared to harm her he would shred them apart and drink their blood.

But the beautiful thing - the thing that had him moving to wind their fingers together, to lean into her and press his lips against hers - was the surety that he wouldn't have to. Because she would already have the offender begging for mercy.

Feyre flinched back before he could hold her hand completely. Her face had paled, and she took a step back.

Frowning, he watched her step away from him.

It drew attention to the small sheath strapped around her waist, hidden in the folds of her dress. Cassian's _elf'cha_. Undeniable proof that he would be there to protect her. Fae did not take oaths like that lightly, especially Cassian, who had seen firsthand how an oath had destroyed his mother. But Feyre had done the impossible to deserve it. 

"You've made a conquest, Feyre-Darling."

Her hand went to the dagger. She seemed to gain strength from the action, her pale face arching up as her jaw set into a stubborn angle. "Cassian, he gave it to me. It was very... ah, nice of him.

"Nice." Cassian scoffed from where he stood in the adjoining room. "She nearly lunged at me to slap my hand away when I spilled my blood."

Cauldron, it was nice to hear Cassian's joy again.

"Take it as a gift," Rhysand told her, realizing that she must not have known what any of it meant when Cassian made the oath. "For what you did for him in healing his soul."

Her face paled more. The knuckles of her hands turned bloodless around the knife. "I... what?"

Her confusion made him confused. She had to be playing coy - only she wasn't. She wasn't being humble, either. It seemed she legitimately had no idea what he was talking about. 

How?

Have you heard of anything like it? Rhysand asked Azriel, joining Marissya and Cassian into the mental connection. 

No. The Cauldron birthed you and not even you have that power. Marissya admitted, her own curiosity about the girl humming like a song through the connection.

Maybe Amren would know. Cassian offered. She's always hoarding those ancient, obscure books. Maybe one of them can say what Feyre is.

Rhysand would have to send the dragon a missive. Which meant he would have to go shopping. Judging from the Queens earlier in the day, the Celierians certainly had big, priceless jewels.

Rhysand turned to Sol again. "Is there any history of magic in your families? Any mix of Elvish blood, perhaps? Or even Fae?"

"What? No, no. Laurie and I are pure mortal. Simple folk."

"Really? Not so simple, I think. You've produced a marvelously strong mage."

Feyre stiffened more. Her eyes moved down toward her feet.

"Oh, no, I think you've got it wrong, ser." Sol said, before Rhysand could ask her what was wrong. "Feyre's not our daughter by blood. We found her when she was a toddler. She was four or five, I think. Woods North of Norban, about a week's journey from the Capitol. They call the woods the Child's Cemetery, since parents are always abandoning their kids up there when they can't feed them or when they're..." He cut himself off.

"When they're..." Rhysand prompted. He had known that mortals had unpleasant tendencies, but abandoning kin?

Feyre answered for him."When they've got magic." She didn't look up from their feet. "When they're cursed."

"Well, now." Sol shifted his weight. "That's all done, now, my dear. The priests took that right out of you."

Feyre lifted her head, and her smile was sweet and beautiful as a doll's smile. "Of course."

_ I want the woods North of Borban investigated _ . He didn’t like the idea of children being abandoned any more than he liked the cramped, almost trapped look to Feyre’s fake smile. 

For some reason, she wanted her parents to believe that she had no magic. It had to do with the memories she’d shared with him, he was sure of it. Of that dark, sinister, sleek creature born and bred for violence that had lived in her reflection. He needed to know how it all connected -

He caught sight of Lauriana, who had shifted her weight at the sudden silence.

Later, he would talk to her. When they were alone.

He motioned to Azriel and Marissya behind him. “I’ve asked them to accompany me so we could begin the marriage contract.” They were more familiar with Celierian customs, and had explained to him the ridiculous, unnecessarily complicated practice. 

What was his would become Feyre’s, and what was Feyre’s would become his. That included family, money, titles, power, souls - and customs. Which meant he would have to learn how to ‘iron out the details’ of things with legally binding contracts.

Rhysan looked towards the tiny living room. It was a humble looking place, filled with furniture worn down for comfort and objects lazily tossed aside. But with Cassian and Lucien, Lauriana and the two girl-children, himself, Marissya, Azriel, Sol, and Feyre, things were rather cramped. “Is there somewhere else we can sit and speak?”

“Of course,” Sol motioned further into the home. “Follow me.”

Lauriana rushed to the room first, nearly jumping into the kitchen beyond. Azriel and Marissya followed at a much more sedated pace, but Rhysand stayed to watch Feyre stand in the middle of the room. One of the twins was reading in a lonely chair in a shaft of light, another gently humming as she embroidered the hem of a dress. Between the two of them, Feyre looked still, and alone. Somehow, it seemed as if the walls were much too close and the people too far away. 

Brushing against her mind, he watched her turn to him. “This will be our marriage - and I don’t know how human mortals do it, but usually it requires two people.” He held out his hand for her, wondering if she would take it to follow him into the dinning room where her family was deciding her fate. 

And it seemed like she almost would - before she walked past him. 

_ It’ll come,  _ Cassian said. Rhysand hadn’t even been aware he’d searched out his old friend’s mind for comfort as he strode past.  _ Just give it time. _

Time. Of course.

Rhysand walked into the room. Even with only six of them, it was still cramped. Rhysand winced as his leg accidentally brushed Azriel’s wing, and the man stiffened, the shadows climbing high up his neck. Still, he found his seat. “So, let’s -” 

_ Lauriana is serving us. It’s polite to wait until she’s done _ . Azriel said.

And Lauriana did seem to be serving them. She bustled around the room giving unappetizing smelling food and warm drinks. Then she walked around, making sure everyone was satisfied. He could remember something like it when he’d been to Celieria before - only it had been servants offering food and drink, not the hosts. 

_ In the Prythian, this would be an insult _ . He said, watching the woman bustle around. Though she looked busy, she also seemed to be pleased, and her guarded mind was softening a bit more as she placed tea before her husband.

_ This is not Prythian _ . Azriel’s shadows dipped towards his wife’s tea, before curling below his bottom lip. 

_ No, it is not _ . In Prythian, it was the host that was provided for - and the guest who gave and served. 

Rhysand waited impatiently for the entire business to be done. And when Lauriana finally settled next to her husband at the table, her hand finding his above the wood, he spoke. “In twelve days, after I’ve finished my business here, I’ll be taking Feyre back with me to Prythian.”

“Twelve…” Lauriana hardly seemed to even breathe out the words.

Realizing that he’d made them all - especially Feyre - uneasy, he tried to explain himself. It wasn’t something he was used to having to do. Even before the war and all the madness it had caused, he had never been in the habit of sharing his thoughts or wishes. 

“Azriel has convinced me that leaving sooner would be… wrong.” He looked at Feyre. “He explained that you need to say your goodbyes.” He watched the corners of her mouth tug down. “Prythian is not only safer for our courtship, but I’ve got… other matters to deal with.” He had spent a thousand years neglecting the Blithe, which had only gotten worse. It was time for him to focus on fixing it. “I figure we’ll draw up whatever contract your need, then have the ceremony in two or three days so we can leave immediately.” 

“Two or three days…” Laruiana’s voice was soft - until it wasn’t. “Impossible!” Horror was etched on her face, like he had just told her an elf was coming to dinner. “The Church alone requires seven weeks of devotion for the Bride’s Blessing! Not to mention all the wedding planning. She needs a dress, a venue. We have to notify our friends and family, get flowers, food, prenuptial dinner plans, receptions…” Lauriana shook her head defiantly. “No, I need a year, at least. Unless you wish to shame us and my daughter with some shoddy, rushed affair?”

Amused by her temper, Rhysand leaned back in his chair. “How would it shame her?”

“You’ll be marrying her as if - as if you don’t care! As if you aren't committed!”

His amusement faded.  _ Careful, Rhys. They have different ways _ . Azriel told him.

“How is throwing a lavish ceremony a sign of commitment? It is one day. One day which I throw senseless amounts of money for people to gawk at us. That doesn’t show care - it shows a useless strain of resources which I could better give to my people and lands.” Why couldn’t he just take her to a temple? Place the High Lord’s seal on her to show everyone her power and be done with it?

Lauriana’s face turned red. “It is a symbol of your investment and intentions, ser! No doubt the Queens themselves will be at this wedding. How can you allow them to come to a rushed ceremony?”

And how could she call a King, ser? Obviously she did not value his power, or his position. He wondered what the prejudiced woman would do if she knew that her precious Queen’s used magic when it suited them. 

“It’s just simply that Fae don’t have these sort of weddings.” Marissya said, moving a gentle spell of calming into the air.

Rhysand nodded. “If you want proof of my intentions and commitment, you only need to wait and watch our lives together-”

A life, Rhysand realized, that would be very, very short. Feyre was mortal, despite her abundance of power. She had maybe fifty years left. That wasn’t even the amount of time necessary for a Fae child to grow into adolescence…

Fifty years they would be together. And then they would die together.

Maybe mating to her was a blessing after all.

“Mama,” Feyre said, cutting off whatever tirade Lauriana was having at the moment. “It can be done in three weeks. Most of the time is necessary for the Archbishop’s Blessing, but if he grants special permissions we can shorten the ceremonies. I’ve heard of him doing it -”

“When a woman is pregnant! They will think you are dishonorable!”

Feyres lip’s twisted into the ghost of a real smile. Whatever her thoughts were, she didn’t speak them as she said, “Then we would simply explain why we’re rushing it, Mama.”

“It’s not enough time! And you can’t - you can’t go to Prythian -”

Ah, that’s what this was about. “Married women leave their families all the time in this country, don’t they?” He asked. He looked to Azriel, who shot him a warning look. “You yourself hail from another part of Celieria, don’t you, Mistress Archeron?”

Lauriana looked seconds away from howling. 

“Three weeks.” Feyre said. “You must give me three weeks.”

Rhysand shrugged. He didn’t want to stay in this country, but he didn’t see any harm in it. If she wanted to stay for a while longer, it would give him time to talk to the Queen’s and end any ties they were trying to forge with Hybern. “If that’s what you want.”

Marissya leaned forward. “If the Archbishop is amenable, the wedding can take place in three weeks, at which time Rhysand will accept the full responsibility of Feyre’s wellbeing, in accordance with tradition.”

Lauriana’s face paled.

“Though the mate bond will not be fulfilled by the marriage ceremony, in the eyes of Celieria, Rhysand and Feyre will be man and wife. Your family, Ser Archeron, can accompany us to Prythian if you wish. Even if you choose to stay here, we will bring an escort for you when the mating ceremony is completed, so you may bear witness.” She produced the marriage contract from beneath her robes.

Sol grabbed it, looking it over as he lit his pipe. After a few huge puffs, he grunted, then handed it to Feyre. Rhysand watched her put her mouth on the tip, produce a few huge flumes of steady, fragrant smoke, and then pass it back.

“Why would you not hold the Fae ceremony at the same time as the wedding?” He asked, putting the paper down and grabbing the pipe from Feyre’s hands. From their combined efforts, the room swirled with smoke.

“Feyre must accept the bond before the ceremony can take place.” Marissya said.

“Didn’t she already do that at court?” 

“No, she only recognized the bond.” Rhysand grabbed the pipe before Feyre could reach it. He smelled the bowl, which was both damp and smoky, before trying it himself. The smoke-dried the back of his throat, and he had to resist the urge to cough before he gladly gave it back to Feyre. 

“I don’t understand,” Sol said. He had a soft smile on his face. “Hit’s hard, eh?”

“Yes.” Rhysand managed to choke out.

“It’s a matter of souls.” Azriel said. “Mates are usually between two people - though not necessarily  _ just _ between two people. Sometimes it can be three people, or two couples, once I’ve heard of seven different people all bonding together.” Ah, the Family. They had existed well before Rhysand’s time, but it was said that half the Fae descended from their line. “Though a mate bond is mostly just two people.”

“All that’s known for sure when it comes to mate bonds is this—” He held up his two index fingers. “We often call them the rod and the lightning. The rod is the one who is born aware of the matebond potential. They often develop feelings for their intended mate far before meeting.” He shot a quick look at Feyre. “And then there is the lightning, who becomes aware of the bond the second the rod calls their souls out in greeting. Which would be me. The second she called on my soul, I became hers. To me, the bond is already done. However, her process has only just begun—it is my right and privilege to earn her soul, bit by bit, and become… grounded. And when that happens, we will be one, sharing one mind, one soul, two bodies, and a single fate. Then and only then will the ceremony happen.”

Azriel’s voice was low as he gazed at Marissya, his lightning, his mate. “She must find the courage to embrace the darkest shadows of her soul, and the even greater courage of baring those shadows to him. When all the barriers are surrendered, all the secrets revealed and accepted, she can complete the bond; and they will no longer be two separate people, but one—stronger than they could ever be apart.”

A fierce longing took over Rhysand as he watched the mated couple fall into their bond, that tug between their hearts only they could feel. 

“And what happens if Feyre can’t accept the bond?” Lauriana asked, obviously agitated. “We’ve raised her in the Church of Light, and she believes as we do that all souls belong to the Bright Lord.”

Then Rhysand would die. Or truly go mad. He wasn’t sure, since he should have gone  _ dahl’reisen _ a long time ago. He supposed that maybe his and Lauriana’s beliefs weren’t so far off. She believed Feyre’s soul belonged to the Lord of Light - which it did not - and Rhysand believed that his soul belonged to the Cauldron. 

Lauriana looked at Sol, just as he had begun to pass his pipe again. “I don’t like the sounds of all this, Sol. You know why I insisted she complete her Devotion. And haven’t I been right about that?” Feyre stiffened, and her puffs on the pipe were harsher. She seemed surrounded by a cloud of dense smoke when Lauriana turned her wet eyes towards her. “I know you hated me for pressing Isaac’s suite, Fyere, but at least with him, I know your soul would be safe.” 

He didn’t like how those words altered Feyre. As if she was falling into herself, somehow hiding in her own skin. He reached out, determined to see what was wrong. As his hand touched hers, he got an overwhelming sense of - of guilt and loyalty. 

She moved her hand back from his fingertips, her eyes shooting over to him. He wished he could read her thoughts, know what was going on in that head of hers. But her mind was tightly guarded, and she had reacted violently every time he had tried to do more than brush up against those mental barriers. 

“I - “ Feyre looked back at Lauriana. “I could never hate you, Mama, never. You’re my mother and I love you. Even with Isaac - I knew you were just trying to do what was right for me. But please… trust that I wouldn’t abandon the Bright Path. Trust in  _ me _ .” She placed her hand over her heart. 

Lauriana’s tears spilled over. She looked away, rather than at her daughter, as she silently cried. 

“Perhaps, it would be better if we talked about the contract.” Sol said, coughing a bit. He held up the paper, and they went through every line and every word of it. Most things Rhysand conceded on, since it didn’t matter to him what the bride price would be, how much each of them would contribute monetarily into the wedding, or things like custody of heirlooms. But when the contract was signed and talk flowed into wedding plans - Rhysand tuned out. He managed to suffer through an hour of it before Sol shoved away from the table. “This old man needs a stiff drink. Feyre, why don’t you take your betrothed to the park, hmm?”

Rhysand shot the man a thankful look. 

One of the twins, who had been hovering in the doorway - the pretty one who was always smiling, asked, “Can we come too?”

“Elain,” Sol sighed.

“ _ Nei _ ,” Their presence would ease Feyre, he was sure of it. He stood and nodded to the girl. “It’s all right, you can come if you’d like.”

Azriel’s amusement shot towards him, and Rhysand opened a mental connection to encompass him and his mate - and then broadened it to include Cassian.

_ Employing sisters in your courtship.  _ Cassian teased.  _ You're shameless _ .

_ Whatever wins her, right? _ Marissya said, thinking of her own outlandish, desperate attempts to win over Azriel’s affections. 

Rhysand - placing his hand on the delicate dip of Feyre’s lower back as they walked out of the dining room - happened to agree.  _ Whatever wins her _ . 

* * *

Feyre

Cassian and Lucien followed them from a distance so they were little more than glimpses of shadows and magic that she saw now and again as she, Rhysand, and the twins walked through the streets towards the riverfront. But Feyre was still thankful for them. Her quintet seemed to be the only thing keeping back the steady, curious stream of Celierians that seemed to have a sudden inspiration to go to the park, too.

She was painfully aware of the gazes, though. And the curious whispers. She wondered what she looked like standing next to Rhysand’s strength and stature, his elegant, raw beauty. And then all of a sudden, she was feeling absolutely inadequate. 

“What are you thinking about?” Rhysand asked. The silence between them had stretched on for several chimes now—and she wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. She did not know this man, and every conversation they’d ever had was… intense. The quiet, peaceful stroll through the park just didn’t fit the idea of him that had formed in her mind.

“I was thinking that I must seem very… young to you.” Young, and dull, and strange.

“ _ Aiyah _ . You do.”

“Ahh.” Why did it hurt when she was expecting the answer? 

“I like it, though. In fact, I envy you your youth.” He peeked over at her. “Older, more experienced women that I know have lost their wonder for life, too, and in their endless searching for something to make them feel it again, they’ve let darkness into their souls. I would never prefer that.”

The Great Sun was slowly lowering. It cast the park in a romantic light, with birds and crickets mingling with the twin’s laughter as Elain teased Nesta about something. “I know what you mean.” She had felt the same thing about the twins on multiple occasions. They were her favorite companions. 

Darkness settled over the city as they watched the twins play. The light of the Great Sun was quickly replaced by the streetlamps. It was said that once, those streetlamps had been lit by small armies of lamplighters with lit wicks that would rush from lamp to lamp—and the smoke of the candles would darken the sky into a heavy fog. During the night, different teams would come by to replace the candles. The cost had been included in the yearly’s King Tax on the city. But when Marikah had become Celieria’s first and only Fae Queen—she’d brought with her spells to help the city. The Velpin River was cleansed by a water spell. The streetlights were brought to life by a Fire spell. 

But Rhysand would have been here to watch those lamp-lighters. He had come, as Fae King, to offer his acceptance of the marriage. 

“It’s been a long time since you were here.” She ventured, not looking away from the gently twinkling firelights in their glass domes. “What was it like, back then?”

“Not so different from now. The city had been built on a grid before, and your ancestors rebuilt it on the same grid. The river has always been where the river has been—same with the park, the palace, that museum. The only true difference I can see is there are no Hybern Mages wandering the streets, working their evil in this place, thank the Cauldron.”

Feyre suspected there was a bit more of a difference. Things change when a city is destroyed, then rebuilt on the ashes. She suspected that the wall, for one, had never circled around the city when Rhysand had first seen it. There was no need for such defenses back then. And she knew from the stories that the elves and the fey had visited the city many times, even lived here as ambassadors and merchants. It was interesting to her that he glossed over the other magical creatures in favor of the Hybern Mages.

“Do you despise all of the Hybern, or just the Mage families?” She asked. 

Selianne was not an Hybern Mage, so maybe she could be a part of the wedding planning like Feyre had done for her.

The thought withered and died as Rhysand gave her a furiously sharp look. “Why do you ask?” His expression was frighteningly fierce. And she knew then that no, Selianne would not be a part of the wedding.

“No reason.” She refused to look at him. “A number of Hybern families have come to live in Celieria over the years, none of them from the Mage lines, but I find they’re nice people. Just trying to live their li—”

His hand came out, his fingers entwining with hers so he could pull her towards him. Her chest bumped against his, and his other hand came out to cradle the side of her jaw before she could move away. His fierce, lavender eyes looked down at her, but it was the hatred and raw fury she could feel because of his touch that made her shudder. “Who? Who, Feyre, who are these Hyberian you have befriended?”

She pushed against his chest, refusing to answer until he let her go. Her chest ached because of him. She stumbled backwards. “It’s none of your business.” She couldn’t give up Selianne, she couldn’t. Not when he was so blinded by his hatred over the race.

He took a very deep inhale in, then refused to let it go. “We must have this conversation again, it seems.” Then he let the air out. He seemed no calmer than before. “You are my mate, so any Hybern folk you’ve befriended are my business because they are a threat to you—thus a threat to me.” When she still refused to answer, his voice grew soft and venomous. “Must I summon Marissya?”

Her spine went stiff. “If you ever order the  _ shei’dalin _ to Truthspeak me, Rhysand, then I assure you, I will never accept your bond.” She would allow no one to invade her mind and strip her soul bare. She’d shatter herself before she could let that happen.

He flinched from her. His lips parted from his teeth, and he seemed almost ready to stride the heavy distance between their bodies and grab her. Would he yell in her face again? Would he shake her? She had no idea—but the violence was in his gaze.

“Don’t threaten me.” Feyre spit out. She didn’t realize how violent she herself had become until she said the words.

“Do you have any idea what you’re even talking about? The Hybern Mages are mortal, human.” Rhysand snarled. “They are not naturally included towards great magic, so they use their own souls as fuel. And why they have extinguished their souls, they move on to use other’s.” He stepped closer to her. “They enslave. Once a soul is claimed by the Hybern Mages, that person’s will is no longer their own. A man would slay his own parents, even his own children, if the mages ordered him to.”

“So? That doesn’t mean that all Hybern are bad.” Selianne  _ wasn’t _ bad.

A muscle flexed in his hand-clenched jaw. “I won’t abandon over a millennium of suspicion and outright hatred for the Hyrbern, even for you, Feyre. What Hybern touches, they corrupt. And the idea of you being turned into a tool for the Mages - “ He cut himself off from whatever he was about to say. “It would be a mortal blow to my race. Feyre, promise me.” He didn’t reach out to touch her again, but he hovered, so close she could feel his breath. “Promise me you won’t go near anyone with Hybern blood, especially not someone born in that cursed land.”

It was clear he expected her to obey him without question. But Feyre couldn’t do it. She couldn’t blindly agree to abandon her best friend. And she couldn’t allow Rhysand to walk all over her. It was about the Hybern now, but what about later? What else would he want her to accept without question? How else was she expected to serve him?

“Feyre.” His voice whipped out. “You are innocent to the evils in this world.”

“I know evil when I see it.” She knew what it felt like - how it tasted on her tongue. It was a feeling of rightness, of power, of feeling absolute control. It tasted like coppery blood. It was glorifying over the death of priests, stumbling from the bodies that had held her down and being glad that they were dead. 

Rhysand’s lavender eyes narrowed, but instead of growing furious, his eyes became sharp. HIs voice, when he spoke, was a soft and persuasive purr. “I shouldn’t have threatened you.” He stepped even closer. And she refused to lean into him like his long, muscled body was begging her to. “It was wrong of me.”

“It was.”

“Forgive me? Please?” He leaned forward, so their foreheads almost touched. 

“Just… don’t do it again.”

“As long as you promise me you won’t go near the Hybern,” He said it so simply, so sweetly that it took her a minute to understand his words.

“Dark Lord curse you, Rhysand!” She pushed against his chest to get away from him. It was hard to be mad at him when he was right in her face. “You are so stubborn.”

“So are you.” But he was smiling. “Eventually you’ll see, I’m right.”

Feyre stormed over to the twins. Elain was trying to get Lucien to show her a bit of magic. “You want to see magic?” Rhysand asked from behind her.

“Just something simple.” Elain said.

“I was thinking - “

“I can show you a spell my mother taught me.” Rhysand said, cutting Lucien off. He gave the man a strange look. “It would be better than seeing a beast’s claws, wouldn’t you think?”

Lucien stiffened. 

“Come on,” Rhysand walked towards the riverfront, to a bench partially secluded by a tree’s branches. The three of them sat on a seat while Cassian and Lucien stood behind them, and Rhysand faced the water, his hands in his pockets. 

“Watch the river.” He urged. And then his black magic was coming out, streams of it which flowed into the river and became streams of water and fire. He manipulated them both, somehow placing the fire inside the water, lighting it up in many different colors. Like a fountain, the river was sent into a spinning, twirling masterpiece. 

Crowds gathered along the riverbanks to watch the display, and though it was wonderful, Feyre’s eyes didn’t stray far from Rhysand. There was a bland, almost sad expression to his face as he twisted naturally into domes, into knives, into dancing couples, into stunning aerial displays of light and color. 

As if everything he was doing meant very little. 

He looked over at her when the magic was done. She wanted to go over and touch him. She wanted to slide her hand into his, and rest her head on his shoulder, maybe press her lips to the curve of his cheek—

Thunderous applause exploded from all sides of the river. Elain joined in, jumping and twirling like the water as she cheered him. Even Nesta seemed impressed, her face softly watching the water drift back down into the river.

But Rhysand...

Lonely. That’s how Rhysand looked. Lonely. As if none of the applause mattered, as if the joy had faded with the magic and all that was left was… him.

He stood straight and tall, and so—so alone. He was a bulwark of strength standing between his people and the world. He was the most powerful Fae to have ever been born. And she could imagine how that difference in strength had set him apart from those would have otherwise mentored and bolstered him. How he was always two or three steps away from being the same as everyone else, but unable to stride alongside them because responsibility was pushing him to go further and farther than before.

She knew the feeling well. She was not powerful, but she was also unlike other people.

Rhysand watched her approach with starless violet eyes. He held very still as she grabbed his hand, and then a violent shudder took over his entire body. He pulled her towards him fiercely, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to his chest. She could feel the need and passion warring against his desire to not scare her. She felt him battle his desires back, control it, cage it. Which took its own immense strength, one she never would have been able to replicate. Yet, searching his feelings as she rested against him, her own arms coming up to warp around his thicker, sturdier frame, she could sense the familiarity of this battle. It was like his desire had woven deep grooves into his soul, like claws, digging in and begging not to be trapped.

Yet he did it. For her. For countless others. He trapped himself. He stood alone. He forced himself to be great.

She held him tighter. She wanted him to feel peace. She imagined her finger smoothing over the grooves, not destroying the impressions, but making them softer and gentler. So when he stood as a bulwark of strength, the pressure wasn’t so heavy.

His body went stiff, then a low, deep groan escaped from his mouth as he bent his head down to rest in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She rested her own cheek against him, and smoothed her hands up and down his back. She did everything she could to express that he wasn’t alone, and in that moment, she didn’t feel so alone, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one should be on Thursday :)
> 
> I gotta say, I'm super grateful for the love I'm getting in this story! It's one of my least looked at story but it's had the best feedback and appreciation out of everything I've written and it means so much to me. And I just want to say that you guys are awesome! Thank you so, so much!


	7. Nightmares and Reduced Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another special thanks to the very wonderful runningwater for editing this chapter!
> 
> It's been a long while since I posted, that's my bad, but I'll try to keep it regular until school starts back up in August. I hope you guys enjoy! Next chapter most definitely will come out sometime tomorrow! 
> 
> Also - disclaimer - this is where the smut build up starts

Feyre

Feyre wandered blindly as she walked through some dark cavern. A few lights were in the distance, just close enough to ruin her night vision as she stumbled over uneven, rocky ground. The air was so hot it burned the back of her throat, and all her pores opened to drench her body with sweat underneath the heavy burlap-cloak she wore.

A rustle echoed down the wide tunnel where the darkness was thickest. There was a low, thick laugh.

It felt safe. Familiar.

Turning from the blinding lights, she rushed towards the sound, feet slipping against sharp rocks and making her slam into a tunnel wall where it curved. Using it to prop herself up, she was careful to steadily walk the rest of the way, the wall guiding her. And then without warning, the dark tunnel opened up in a deep cavern.

A woman stood there, wearing a cloak with a deep hood that hid her features. Before her kneeled three people, their faces covered with the same burlap cloth that covered Feyre’s body.

As Feyre came forward, some weight lifted off her shoulders. Her strides became longer, her hips swinging to accommodate the new straightness of her spine. She walked straight to the woman, and received a bright, pretty smile within the shadows of the hood that seemed to lift all the doubt out of Feyre.

Feyre threw off her own hood. The hot air blasted into her face, giving a cruel kind of reprieve to her sweat-damp hair.

She reached forward, and so did the cloaked woman. From her hand to Feyre’s – a long, thin dagger was given.

Suddenly the kneeling people made sense.

Without hesitating, Feyre turned to the first kneeling figure. The hood was lifted from his head by a hot blast of air.

It was Isaac, his face panicked and furious, his ambitious eyes glaring up at her like they had at court once the betrothal was broken. As if she had hurt him. As if she was the reason he was so unhappy.

Feyre walked towards him and touched his cheek with her fingertips. He was cold to the touch, like he was already dead, or maybe just not there, and the feeling made an ache shoot all the way up her arm. Pulling back, his glaring eyes watched her aching hand as she plunged the dagger into his chest.

He doubled over, wheezing. Those glaring, ambitious eyes rolled back – and Isaac Hale died.

An apathetic joyous, powerful thing inside Feyre’s chest rejoiced.

She walked to the next figure. The hood lifted in a gust of air. Selianne. The tears rolled down her face as she trembled. Feyre knelt in front of her, ignoring how the cold – which was less intense now that Isaac’s blood was soaking her knees – burned up her arm as Feyre smoothed the blond hair away from Selianne’s face. It left bloodstains to mar her white skin.

“It’s okay.” Selianne’s lips trembled as she spoke. “It’s okay. I forgive you. Feyre. Feyre, I know it’s not you.”

But it was.

This had always been her.

Feyre regripped the bloody knife in her bloody hand and she plunged it into Selianne’s heart. Somewhere in the darkness of the cavern, two children began to weep.

Feyre rose, feeling victorious. Feeling on top of the world. The heat wasn’t nearly so bad anymore. And the tingling ache of cold skin had all but disappeared as Feyre let her friend’s body collapse in its own pool of blood.

The blood that was mingling with Isaac’s. It was creating a deep pool, which lapped at Feyre’s ankles like the river’s shore.

Eager to continue the ritual, Feyre moved to the third figure. She paused before it, realizing that the cloth over the head wasn’t disappearing.

Feyre turned to look at the cloaked figure behind her. The woman was wearing the same burlap cloak, its edges swaying in the blood’s current. The smile inside the shadows of the hood was wide, twisting up at the edges to show as much teeth as possible.

Feyre pointed her dagger at the last person. “Who is it?” She asked.

The woman shrugged. “What does it matter?” When Feyre didn’t turn around to finish her bloody work, the figure’s smile grew sharper. “A bargain is a bargain, is it not? Take their life, or I get yours.”

The heat crawled up Feyre’s spine, a long-forgotten memory that ached and burned. She turned back to the last kneeling figure. The blood in the cavern had risen higher, so it lapped at the burlap sack on the figure’s head, teasing out the image of a proud chin.

She didn’t feel strong or confident or good anymore. She felt scared.

So she leaned forward, grabbed the figure by the shoulder – hissing along with the smiling woman at the shock of ice-cold pain - and plunged the dagger in.

The gasp was oh, oh so familiar though.

Feyre stumbled, overwhelmed by the blood that was getting closer and closer to her chest. It lifted up the sack, revealing Lauriana’s dazed brown eyes, her agonized scream filling with blood.

 _Why_ , she seemed to ask. _After everything I did to prevent this?_

It was the same look Lauriana had given her when she’d walked into the Church and found all the priests dead.

And like then, Feyre couldn’t bring herself to feel a thing.

Feyre turned, half expecting an order. But the smiling woman’s mouth was already covered by blood. As Feyre watched, she reached out to pull back her hood with a gore drenched hand, revealing a strangely pristine ring with a brown eye rolling inside it.

As Feyre was swallowed by the bloody current, the order finally came - coming from everywhere and nowhere. “It’s time.”

Feyre woke. Her sheets were tangled around her and her body was covered in sweat. She squinted, surprised to see that it was dawn. Usually her nightmares came in the blackest part of the night—

“Feyre! Are you alright?” Cassian’s voice sounded right outside of her door. She didn’t answer. She wasn’t breathing right to speak words, her chest was too tight to even take in air.

The door shuddered as Cassian pounded on the wood. “Answer me, Feyre, or I will come in. Are you harmed? Should I call Rhysand?”

“N—” She couldn’t breathe right.

Lauriana’s voice sounded out in the hall. “What’s this then? What’s wrong?”

Lauriana. Lauriana was all right.

Of course she was all right? Why would Feyre think she was anything but?

“I—I’m fine!” Feyre called. The sound of her mother’s voice pulled her back into reality, a safe, warm place where nightmares were commonplace and nightmares tended to dissolve like sugar on the tongue. “It was- was just a bad dream.” But about what, though?

Blood. And… and Lauriana?

It must have been about the priests again.

Lauriana’s sigh was loud enough to reach Feyre’s ears. Her mother opened the door, still in her nightgown and robe, and stopped in the doorway. Over her shoulder, Cassian peeked in, his eyes assessing the small space for any danger.

Feyre was still tangled up in her sheets, her own nightgown twisted around her hips as she panted into the air. With fresh air coming in—she became aware of the reek of her sweat.

“Another bad one?”

Feyre looked at Lauriana. At the aching hurt in her mother’s eyes.

When the Fae with their superior hearing weren’t around, Feyre could hide the nightmares from her family. As far as Lauriana knew, Feyre hadn’t had them in years – which meant there was just one more thing for her mother to blame Fae magic on. She would need to dissuade Lauriana of it somehow, need to express without giving up secrets how the Fae weren’t corrupting her already broken and black soul.

But at the moment, she couldn’t. All she could do was hold back her tears as she looked at her mother’s face. For some reason, the gently disappointed expression was a blessing. “I’m—I’m fine.”

Lauriana tisked. “Bathe and get dressed, dear. There’s a lot to do today. And wear something nice. We’ll be meeting the queen’s personal dressmaker this morning so you can be measured for your wedding gown. We’ll also be meeting with a half-dozen merchants. Then we have an appointment with the Archbishop himself to plan the rushed Bride’s Blessing.” Lauriana hesitated in the doorway.

Years ago, before the failed exorcism, Lauriana would come into her room and hold her. They would rock together, and Feyre would find comfort in her mother’s clean linen smell and soft arms.

Lauriana hesitated just long enough to make Feyre ache for those days – before she was turning her heel to stride back to her own bedroom.

Cassian stayed in the doorway, not moving. He had a deep scowl on his roughhewn features. “Will you tell me what you dreamed of? I could help.”

She had no idea what she’d dreamed about. She rarely remembered. But she had a feeling that the specifics of her dream weren’t what he wanted to know. “I’ve—I’ve had nightmares all my life.” She admitted. Her voice was quiet as she gazed up at her familiar ceiling. “I appreciate your concern, but there’s nothing to do.”

He stayed, though, standing in the doorway, his brown gaze darting this way and that and reminding her of… a ring. Why a ring?

Eventually her heart and breathing calmed and she sat up, wincing at how her dress clung to her sweaty back. Then a sparkle caught her eyes. She looked towards her bedside table to see that Rhysand had left another gift—this time a spiraling weave of multicolored magic that danced in a small, perfect glass globe.

It was beautiful, but it was also strange. She could see the individual five magics woven separately at first, then together so they would all spiral around on another in a pattern reminiscent of the water-magic he’d done the night before. The gift of one’s magic was usually symbolic of the gift of one’s soul - at least, it was in the poetry. And yet it was placed in a fragile Celierian-made vessel, trapped and protected. It was strength inside vulnerability, magic inside a mortal craft. She wondered what it meant. Was it a representation of their relationship? Or was she supposed to somehow represent the entire thing?

The pearls had been easier to guess at.

“You should tell him.” Cassian said. When she looked away from her gift to him, he explained, “About the nightmares.”

“It’s nothing, Cas-”

“Not all dreams are harmless.”

Feyre had learned that particular fact herself a long, long time ago.

* * *

Mistress Sebarre

A small knock rapped on her door.

“A moment!” Mistress Sebarre called. She pulled her hair into an untidy knot and clattered down the stairs from the private apartments above her shop. She had no idea who in the Bright Lord’s name would come knocking on her door a quarter after seven. It wasn’t as if normal folk ever woke possessed with the sudden and driving need to purchase a length of cloth—so she never opened before ten.

She unlatched the door but didn’t unchain it, instead squinting through the bright light that came streaming into her shop from the three-inch crack at the door. A woman with a bright white smile stood just outside her door. She had a fine look to her, rich, with fine cloth for her fashionable dress.

Sebarre had seen the type before. They tended to populate the West End during market days, coming out of their lofty mansions on RidgeHill for goods and gossip and lovers.

“What can I do for you, Mistress?” She asked.

The woman’s blue eyes seemed to sparkle. “You are Mistress Seberre, the weaver?”

“I am.” She sniffed. “Obviously.”

“You have a daughter named Selianne?”

She frowned, wondering what this woman was about. She didn’t seem the type to befriend Selianne, who was more akin to the working class than to nobility. “Why do you ask?”

“I merely mean to ascertain if I had the right Mistress Sebarre.” The woman gave her a deep, courtly curtsey. “My name is Ianthe, I am a merchantman’s wife. Forgive such an early intrusion, but my husband’s ship sails at noontide today, and I had heard last night that you did wonderful work on the loom. There are nobles in Sorrelia who’ll pay a fine price for quality fabrics and my husband just so happened to have enough room in his hold for a dozen or so bolts. I’d thought to seek you out and glance over your wares, Mistress.” She smiled a dazzling smile. “If you’d care to let me into your shop, that is.”

Sebarre couldn’t turn down the price of a dozen bolts—especially not from someone rich enough to afford a good deal. “My pardon, Mistress Ianthe. A woman alone can never be too careful. Of course you may come in.” She closed the door, undid the chain, and opened the door.

“My thanks.” The noble woman entered the small shop.

Sebarre closed the door behind her. “What would you like to see first? Brocade? Velvet? Or something finer? I’ve just finished a bolt of spider-silk so purple, you could fall into the dye.” She’d actually made it half a year ago, but no one could afford the price of markup. But the captain could afford it, she was sure.

“To be honest, Tuelis, my pet, what I really want to see is your obedience.”

Confused, Sebarre turned from the shelves where she’d placed her silk bolt.

And then the long-forgotten ache of cold pressed into her chest. Dread filled her. It had been years, when she was but a little girl, since she’d felt this awful cold, that feeling of rightness and power that came with it. “No—Oh, no!” She spun on the noblewoman, who’s striking blue eyes darkened as the depths of her pupil swallowed even the whites.

Seberre managed two racing steps towards the door, but the noblewoman—who was no noblewoman—moved with inhuman swiftness. Her pale hand slapped against the door, blocking Sebarre from escape. Her pretty blue eyes had turned blacker than pitch.

And then the cold, insistent voice called her name, again and again, demanding her submission. The pain in her chest grew sharper, a lulling, seductive pleasure filled with consuming apathy. It was a feeling she hadn’t had since she was a child in Hybern.

She had no thoughts but panic in her head before her consciousness fell into subjugation.

* * *

Rhysand

Bright, almost afternoon light streamed through the windows of Rhysand’s suite inside the palace. He’d only managed to capture a few hours of sleep, but it felt like enough. Maybe too much.

Never before had he woken up so… rested. For the first time in thousands of years, he had not dreamed of the wars, or the dead, or the immolation of the world. He had not even dreamed of Ellysetta.

It almost didn’t seem possible.

He got up, swinging his legs over the side of the too soft Celierian mattress. He checked his internal barricades that held back the sorrows and found them still in place. But beyond them, the torment of his last few years still throbbed and ached—but they were muted. As if the burden had become lighter.

Feyre had healed his soul. Just as she’d healed Cassian’s.

She hadn’t healed him completely - he didn’t think that was possible - but she had managed, somehow, to give him a greater sense of peace then Marissya’s substantial _shei’dalin_ powers had. And Feyre had done it without trying. In a single moment of holding one another, she had given him peace.

He sent out a thought to Cassian. It was wordless, questioning, but Cassian knew him.

 _We’re on our way to the Cathedral to meet with her family’s priest and the Archbishop._ Cassian said. _She is well._

 _I have a meeting with Demetra this morning, but I’ll join you when I can._ Soon, he’d have to meet with them soon.

Rhysand searched along the souls with Cassian, finding a bright, beautiful, warm one that seemed to call out to him. _Darling-Feyre_. He called. He felt her sudden alertness.

He felt her reach out. For the first time, her mind reached out to touch his own. _Rhysand?_ It was a tentative touch, unbacked by any power, but it was her touch, her mental whisper. It sounded in his mind with the force of a gong.

Rhysand’s body clenched, his need for her suddenly all consuming.

He’d woken with his dick hard, a habit that was so old he hardly noticed it anymore, but he noticed now. He hissed, grabbing the sheets with one hand as he grabbed himself with the other. The pleasure was intense, more than he could remember feeling in—millennia, thanks to the presence of her mind.

Half a city away, he knew his desire was lapping at her through the bond. Mental hands running up and down her frame, caressing her thighs, gripping her ass, her breasts, mingling in the slowly dampening heat between her legs.

He was a bit surprised to feel her own awakening desires. Ellysetta herself had always shied away from his—

A mental awareness reached through the channel they shared and gripped him. Rhysand hissed, his hand falling away at the delicate force that gripped his length. His thighs trembled at the feeling, his stomach clenching.

 _You woke up hungry_ . Her wicked delight sang in his mind. He let go of his own body, giving her the will to use him how she pleased, his head knocking back as her touch flicked across the tip of his stiffness. _What a man you are_. Her thoughts were soft and needy. She wanted him. As badly as he wanted her in that moment. And their wants collided together, smashing against one another, forming something that threatened to alter Rhysand down to his very core.

He saw, within her wicked mind, her own surprise. She compared the moment to when she’d pleasured the welp, Isaac Hale, and his reluctancy -

The idea of her with anyone else made him ache. His mind reached out for her, wanting a deeper connection, burrowing into her mind -

Fear. All he could feel was her fear.

Rhysand quickly slammed down his mental barriers, blocking his baser instincts and untangling himself from the easy, perfect thing that they’d made together. It lessened the connection, allowing him to lean over his own lap and take deep, shaking breaths in.

It was too much. Too much too soon. She might want him, but obviously she feared what he could be, but sharing mind-to-mind was still terrifying to her. Even Ellysetta had never accepted that part of him. And they’d been together the better part of six centuries.

It would be hard to hold back his daemati powers. A large part of him was too eager to join his mind with Feyre’s. That could be dangerous. For her. And for him, if she rejected him out of fear.

 _I must go_. Before he did something stupid. He gave her the mental projection of a kiss—then broke the bond before letting himself have what little comfort he could offer himself.

* * *

Feyre

Feyre touched her lips with the tips of her fingers, hyper aware of their fullness, thanks to the lingering kiss. It had been every bit as real feeling as a true kiss. As they’d shared that… that inconceivable something together, their lusts rising, her fingers had almost curled because of the sure knowledge that she was gripping him in her hand, the smell of him - like citrus, and sandalwood, and sea-salt - had surrounded her in the air. It had felt like he’d pulled her close. Like she was kneeling before him between his legs.

And then the shadows had come, dark, inky swaths that had demanded entrance into her mind, filling her mind like fog in a bay. She hadn’t minded the feeling behind that mental darkness, hadn’t minded how it sang a bit, to a gentle melody she felt like she already knew. But she had feared the… give of her own mind; the sudden crumbling of a long-held barrier that trapped her own darkness.

Shuddering, Feyre turned to look at her mother. Her mother, who was her spiritual life-line. Her guide to the Lord of Light.

Thankfully, whatever she and Rhysand had done together—Lauriana was oblivious to it.

“I hope the meeting with Father Celinor and the Archbishop doesn’t take too long.” Feyre said, as Lauriana turned her head and gave Feyre an arching eyebrow. “I wanted to go to the park with the girls.”

Lauriana blew all the air out of her nose in one large gust but didn’t raise her objections anymore than that. If there was one argument Feyre always won - it was how much time she spent with the twins.

And Feyre felt almost desperate to be with them today. To get a break from all the wedding planning. Today alone she’d spent four unpleasant bells with haughty dressmakers, cobblers, and clothiers sent over by the Queens. That in itself wouldn’t be so bad—even if they did scoff when they realized she had no knowledge of the significance of lace borders or how many buttons were appropriate on a lady’s shoe—if she couldn’t feel their dislike for her crawling over her skin. Even her quintet had seemed uneasy with it all, Cassian in particular.

Feyre was determined to enjoy the day though. Even if she was going to Celieria’s Grand Cathedral of Light.

Thought Feyre believed in the Lord of Light and cherished its community – she was not so fond of church anymore, with its priests.

“You cannot rush the Church, Feyre.” Lauriana said. “Neither should you. This is the Bride’s Blessing, the moment when you purify your soul before communion.”

Lips still tingling, Feyre nodded. “Of course, mama.”

* * *

Rhysand

Rhysand strode down the corridor to Queen Demetra’s private office, where a pair of Royal Guardsmen flanked the door. They were encased in metal; smelly, noisy, inflexible stuff that never failed to make him amused. Who could fight encased in metal?

Both men miraculously managed to bow to him, before reaching over and opening the door. Inside, the shafts of light that came in through the large, half-shuddered windows pierced his eyes and created a dull sort of headache near his temples.

Az was already in the room, leaning against the back of the couch as the Queen Demetra stared out through the windows and towards one of the grand gardens. The streaming light lit up her curly hair as she turned. “Good Morning, King Rhysand. I hope you found your palace accommodations acceptable.”

“I could sleep just about anywhere.” Rhysand confessed, before moving to lean against Demetra’s massive oak desk. It put the wall of windows behind his shoulder and the doorway to his right. “Camps, floors, marble. A comfortable feather bed inside a fancy, insulated room might just change that though.”

Demetra had a deep, rich laugh. “I hope not to spoil you too much.”

Rhysand’s eyes caught the shadows that looped around Azriel’s ear, telling him secrets. When Rhysand reached out, Azriel remained silent, choosing not to share what he’d learned.

“Azriel tells me you believe _dahl’reisen_ have begun murdering Celierians up North.” Near Norban, actually. Where Feyre had been found.

Demetra seemed a little startled by the abrupt change in conversation. Rhysand felt it circulating in the air. A deep, almost well-like feeling of discomfort, awe, and something close to fear but wasn’t quiet fear. Rhysand wondered if he should have talked with the woman more, joked and created some kind of comradeship. After all, Rhysand was the monster Demetra had heard rumors of all her life; the deranged fae King who’d almost destroyed the world. A monster she’d had to face for the first time in an open court of law in front of her entire court.

And Rhysand hadn’t done much to alleviate those old fears. Conversing with the friendliest of the Queens might do something to change the relationship Rhysand had with them – but he was too curious to know what was going on with his own exiled, soulless people to care.

Before he could figure out how to swing back the conversation to a lighter topic, Demetra managed to shrug off her discomfort.

“There’ve been half a dozen attacks in the last two months alone—twenty Celierians slain since First Moon this spring. Another ten since Harvest last fall. Mostly farmers and village folk, outliers along the Northern forests where superstitions run high. The Border Lords have been trying to keep it quiet because of that. But the news could only be kept silent for so long. Now pamphleteers and newspapers have wind of it, and all hope of quietly resolving the issue before it becomes another Northern Scare is all but impossible.”

She explained the witness stories and gave Rhysand a recovered Elf’cha. “Lord Azriel has already assured me that it’s unlikely the blade was left behind by accident.” She said.

“Beyond unlikely.” Rhysand agreed, spinning the familiar weight around his right hand’s fingers. “Elf’cha are special blades, do you know the history of them?”

Demetra said nothing.

Rhysand looked down to see the blurred image of the Elf’cha moving back and forth from the right of his hand to the left, under and over. “The Fae have a very long history with the Elves. They’re cousins of ours, in a racial sense. Their magic is stranger, but they were still birthed by the Cauldron. And for longer than history can actually recount, the elves and the fae were fighting over who kept the Cauldron. We Fae wanted to worship it, respect it, ask of it favors. The Elves, on the other hand, wanted to use it as a kind of…” Rhysand flipped the Elf’cha in the air and waved it around a bit in thought. “Energy source. We Fae thought that was sacrilegious.”

Rhysand looked towards Azriel, and the two of them shared bleak smiles. Rhysand’s parents had committed the gravest of sins by using the Cauldron’s power to birth him. In so many ways, they had used the sacred Creator the way the Elves had wanted.

“Needless to say there was a holy war of it.” Rhysand watched the shadows move to Azriel’s fingers, imitating the twirling of a knife before disappearing into the sunlight. “A longer war that history can actually recount. I won’t bore you with the details – the Fae won, and the Elves fled from the island towards the mainland.” He palmed the dagger long enough to imitate fleeing with his two fingers. “But the old ways of doing things, like teaching our men discipline through battle, and tempering our Elf’cha – Elf killing – blades with magic, stayed longer than the war did. The Elf’cha are designed so that once they’re thrown, they always go back to their sheaths.” Rhysand lifted up the blade and watched the light play off the edges.

“The spell works regardless of distance or time. It’s about the blood, I believe. Those who keep to the Elf’cha metalwork trade keep their secrets close to their chests, so I can’t say how it’s done. But I do know that when my own blades were forged, I gave up quite a bit of my blood to the metalworkers.” They’d had to drain him nearly to the point of death. It was considered a right of passage to all warriors – and over the years it had been adopted into a particularly ruthless training regimen. In every graduating class, ten students were drained of their blood, deposited into a forest littered with beasts, and told to climb one of the highest mountains in Prythian.

Rhysand had only survived because of Azriel and Cassian. They’d practically dragged him up that mountain. And they’d wept along with him as they were given their sacred blades.

No fae in their right mind – not even a _dahl’reisen_ – would give up an Elf’cha.

“And yet… what _dahl’reisen_ could be said to be in their right minds?” Azriel asked, picking up on the thought through his own powers. Rhysand hadn’t been projecting the thought – but Azriel wasn’t actually a daemati. He was something other. A shadow-whisperer. 

Demetra looked between the two, frowning.

Rhysand flipped the blade over and handed it to Azriel. _Send the image of the symbol to our people here. See if any of them know it._

 _I’ve already done that. It’s of the Vel’Serranis line_. _That’s all anyone can tell._

Startled, Rhysand lifted the knife back to his chest. That was Marissya’s line.

 _Most humans can’t tell the difference between a dahl’reisen and a fae._ Rhysand said, thumbing the familial mark. It wasn’t Tamlin’s blade – but he had collected quite the following over the years. And enough deaths under his belt to kill a distant cousin or three to take their Elf’cha’s. _Could they have left it to send a message? Or to stir up more trouble?_

 _I’m looking into it_.

Azriel turned to the Queen. “Is it possible to have the witnesses of this attack come down here for a Truthspeaking?”

Demetra was frowning, her emotions too complicated and turbulent for Rhysand to fully understand without breaking the touch barrier. “They’ve all refused.”

“So make it a royal decree.” Rhysand offered. He started twisting the knife around his fingers again.

“That’s not how our coregency works.”

Rhysand rolled his eyes. This was why he had forced his lords to bend the knee – so he wouldn’t have to jump through bureaucratic hoops. It made him a tyrant, but at least tyrants didn’t have to sit on their hands while they waited for everyone to agree on something.

_Have you sent anyone out to inspect Norban yet?_

_No._ Picking up on his thoughts, Azriel gave a very gentle nod, his shadows swimming through Demetra’s mane of curls. _But when I do, I’ll make sure to send a daemati and have them take a detour towards these attacks_. None of them would be as powerful as Marissya – but it would have to do.

 _Keep it discreet. We’re here to make allies, not sow distrust_.

Azriel’s thoughts grew annoyed. He hated when his people were questioned or doubted more than he hated it when he himself was questioned or doubted. _They will be discreet._

“What I don’t understand,” Rhysand said, watching the knife flip. “Is what a bunch of _dahl’reisen_ would gain from slaughtering some Celierian peasants.”

Azriel sighed. “You think the Hybern are behind this.”

“The possibility has crossed my mind.”

“The Hybern have no more reason to kill Celierians than _dahl’reisen_ do.” Demetra said.

“That’s not true. Hybern Mages are tricky creatures, their intentions are not often seen until it’s too late to avoid them.” He lifted up the blade to point between the two of them. “Humans are rarely able to see the distinction between Fae and _dahl’reisen_. Hybern knows that. They would use that information to their advantage – planting the seeds of doubt and driving a wedge between our two countries.”

She frowned a little heavier. “All due respect, Your Majesty, but there is nothing to wedge. We are not allies.”

Rhysand smiled. A bright blush formed its way onto her dusky cheeks. “I would like to remedy that. It’s why I came. To give the olive branch, as it were, and start a trade agreement.”

“How auspicious. Just when my country was about to finalize a trade agreement with the Hybern.”

“It is rather good timing, I’ll admit.” If Azriel hadn’t kept up on his spying, Rhysand would have never known that the countries were opening up again to let through small, valuable exotic goods. “But I can promise you that whatever they are offering, I can double it. It would be very lucrative of you to keep the Hybern borders closed.”

“That would ruin any chances of peace between us.” Demetra said. Her fingers bridged over her lap, their trembling hidden by the layers of fine silk skirts.

“I suspect,” Rhysand said, not looking down at those fingers, “That such a slight would possibly end any and all marriage contracts between the Celierian Queens and the Hybern Prince.” Rhysand put the tip of the knife onto his bottom lip. “Who is that Prince again, anyway…”

“I believe his name is Hymickael.” Azriel chirped up. “He’s about to celebrate his twelfth birthday.”

“Gods, twelve. That’s when you humans start to go through puberty, yes? Voices breaking, acne appearing. I hear your men-children are hornier than rabbits, too.” Rhysand gave the Queen another smile.

“That’s what I hear.” Azriel deadpanned.

“Oh, and who is he contracted to marry again? Surely it isn’t Annoura.”

“I believe it’s the one they call the Lion of Celieria.” Azriel said.

“Your games are funny, good sers, but I don’t find jokes at my expense all that humorous.” Demetra’s lips had thinned, and her fingers had twisted themselves in front of her. “How good will this trade be?”

“Good enough that with a little inside support, I’m sure we can win over the majority of your court.” Rhysand said. He crossed his ankles, preparing himself for a good, long talk.


	8. I'll Ask for a Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to runningwater's edits!

Rhysand

Following the glow of Feyre’s soul, he found himself back at the park. There was a gentle hum of conversation, the lapping of the shore, bird’s song and escorted courting couples, women with parasols, men running in some sort of game that involved bats and balls, and everywhere – laughter. 

It made him long for Velaris. It seemed like it had been too long since he had walked the Rainbow, enjoying the music and art that played around him. Too long since he had been dragged out to go dancing with Mor and Cas, and to see a concert with Azriel.

As he walked towards Feyre – who sat with her sister against the trunk of a tree, reading from a book together – Elain shot out from her group of friends to skip towards them. “Come play squares!” She demanded. “We need two more people.”

Nesta flipped a page in her book without looking up. “No.”

Feyre looked up, meeting Rhysand’s gaze. The sunlight had a strange effect on her eyes, making the metallic gleam of them brighter than the color for a second or two. 

“I didn’t ask you,” Elain poked her sister’s leg with a foot. “How is the book, by the way?”

Nesta just kept reading.

“But we won’t have enough people.” Feyre said, her eyes still on Rhysand.

“I can help with that.” He offered. 

Elain jumped, spinning to face him with bright pink cheeks. “Make noise, Your Majesty. Or else I’ll put a bell on you.”

Nesta choked, her fist coming up from her book to press against her lips. “He’s not a cat, Elain.”

“Then he should make noise.” Elain looked Rhysand up and down, then seemed to find him acceptable. “You’ll do. But let’s hope your good. These guys,” Elain jerked her thumb towards a group of children her own age, with a few younger tag-alongs. “They play to win.”

Smiling, he looked over at Feyre. “I always play to win.” He sent some of his magic towards her, carefully dragging the sensation of his tongue up her throat and wrapping around the outer shell of her ear. She stiffened, then shivered before giving him her own heated look.

Her responses made him hungry.

“Come on, Feyre-darling. Come play with me.” He held up his hand, then leveraged her up onto her feet as Elain danced back towards her friends. Feyre’s body brushed against his as she stood. Her face was close, so he could see the way the light played off her lashes and how her bottom lip had a gentle dimple in it.

“Lord of Light bless me.” Nesta snapped, her book snapping shut with enough force to make Feyre jerk her gaze away. “This is a  _ park _ . A public place. Go do that,” She waved her fingers at them. “Somewhere else.”

Rhysand didn’t quite know what to say to the little thing. There was something about her hard brown gaze and stern features that made it hard to talk with her. But he couldn’t help but notice that her book’s cover displayed the image of a woman grasped in a bare-chested male’s arms, their poses almost identical to his and Feyre’s – just with more clothes.

Thankfully, he was saved from finding what to say by Elain, who called out that they needed to hurry. 

Stones was a game of aim, dexterity, and speed. The point was to make a path from one side of the grid to another by landing stones on connecting squares. A mix between go and checkers, the object was to create a path of stones across the grid while obstructing others. 

The first player to build a path across the twenty-by-twenty space won.

“Are there any other rules?” He asked. There weren’t. “Good - I want a boon when I win.”

He watched as she tried to predict where he was going, her strange dove-grey-blue eyes narrowing. “A boon?”

“Every winner should get an award.”

The fullness of her mouth twirled up at the sides. “What do you want?”

Still staring at her lips, he said, “A kiss.”

“A kiss.” She repeated.

He leaned towards her. “I want one. From you.”

Her voice was deeper as she asked, “And if I win?”

He couldn’t stop from smiling if he tried. It was not a polite smile, but one full of sharp teeth. “Then you get a boon.”

She grabbed onto it quickly. “Anything.” She demanded. “I get anything.”

“Anything.” What would she ask for? It was a shame that he’d never find out - but she only had to ask in a different game, or maybe after the kissing. He’d give her anything she wanted. “Well, do we have a wager, darling?”

She considered him, her chin tilted up, her arms crossing. “Let the games begin, then.”

And so the game began.

One of the children gave him a spare bag of spare stones. They were painted with an identifying mark of purple spirals. Then they took their places around a grid, four on each side, with Rhysand sharing a side with Feyre.

Each player got a turn, dropping a stone in front of their feet. As the rounds went on, and the distances grew, and paths crossed, and tactics were deployed - the game grew more interesting. It was even fun. And not just because he was looking forward to his boon.

In the end, Feyre and Rhysand were the last ones to play. Rhysand tossed his stone, deliberately landing it on Feyre’s square, which would change the direction of her way across the grid and gain him an easier path. She was laughing as they plowed together, her softness smashing into his harder chest as they reached for the challenged square.

The square he had gotten to first.

He took her weight easily, his hand sliding around her elbows and towards her firm back to push her weight into him. She was receptive, melting into his chest, her hands sliding down his torso in a leisurely caress that nearly had him forgetting about the game. He had to force himself to focus. “I believe I won this round.” He told her, bending his neck to touch her smiling cheek with his nose, and inhale the scent of her. Sunlight somehow had a smell on her skin.

“This round, maybe.” She teased, pushing his chest a little to regain her balance. He followed her back to the outside of the grid at a leisurely pace.

Since he had claimed her stone, it was his turn again. And this would win him the game. He moved to throw it but stilled as she leaned into him from the side. “Take care with your aim, Rhys. If you miss-I could win.”

“Miss?” He scoffed at her. “I won’t miss.” It was, after all, child’s play.

“Care to wager on that?”

Delighted, he turned to her fully. He was glad that all the children who’d been playing before had lost interest in the game as soon as their stones had been taken. He didn’t want their audience now. “What do you have in mind?”

“If you don’t win this round - I want to go flying.” She paused.

_ That’s _ what she wanted? He wondered at her daring. Very few people were willing to fly, and even fewer desired it. He knew seasoned warriors, a few millennia old by the time the Magic Wars had started, who flat out refused despite the strategic advantages it could have given them at battle to have an Illyrian hold them in the air.

It was not a pleasant place to be. At higher altitudes, the air got thin and cold. And at the speeds he needed to fly to keep his mass in the air, her hair would become whips and the wind would become suffocating. Still, with a bit of magic, he could keep her from suffocating or freezing. And since she would be in his arms, he could stabilize her when he banked or took a sharp current.

Either way, he would enjoy going to the skies with her. Enjoy the freedom of the act, and the fact that he could hold her close-

“You do have wings, don’t you?” She asked, mistaking his hesitation. She glanced at his shoulder, then her gaze darted to where Cassian was standing in the shade, watching Elain and her friends as they took a rope and flung themselves into the river.

“I do.” He said. He materialized them, feeling the tingle of magic form the appendages he usually kept hidden. He wasn’t quite sure where he put them, only that it felt like absolute relief when he let them out.

He was gifted with her sharp, daring stare. He quickly let them go before her hand could reach up and touch the outer bend of his wing. He didn’t need that sort of distraction when a wager was in place.

“And when I win?” He asked.

She shrugged, like the idea didn’t bother her in the least. But her strange eyes were smiling, even if her lips weren’t. “Your choice.”

He nodded sharply. He’d ask that she ride with him when he won.

Turning to the game, he took aim. But as he was about to let the stone go, Feyre leaned towards him and took the lobe of his ear between her lips and tongue.

His entire body clenched. Warmth surrounded the base of his spine and wrapped around his groin. He lost his breath - and his throw went wild. Rather than landing on the winning square, his stone hurtled through the air and grew lost in the park’s lawn.

Too soon, Feyre leaned back. “I win.” Her voice was soft, and deep.

“ _ Yes _ .” He snarled, turning to her. He needed that kiss. “It’s your turn. Hurry, so I can win.”

She rolled her eyes before tossing her stone towards the unoccupied square. Her aim was true. She had impeccable skills. But as the stone descended - it hit the dark wall of magic he created and bounced back to land on a disqualified player’s square.

For a second, Feyre didn’t move. She stared at the grid, at the offending square, at the winning one, and turned to him with an almost violent  _ hiss _ \- a rasp of air that left the parting of her clenched teeth and had his body tightening with more desire. “You  _ cheat _ .”

Without looking, he directed his own stone to the winning square with a bit of magic. It landed. “You didn’t say that magic wasn’t allowed, darling.”

“It’s assumed you would have more sportsmanship than—”

“I play to win.” He leaned closer to her, grabbing her hand in his own. He shivered at the thrill and heat of her emotions. His mate was more than a little competitive. And if he didn’t lead her towards the crops of trees beside the river right now - he was going to kiss her here on the lawn. He had learned in his youth that public displays of affection drew out instincts of possessiveness that bordered on near violent claiming - and that he had been with women that weren’t as important to him as Feyre Archeron. If he kissed her here, knowing there was an entire park of eyes watching, he would rip her dress and slide between her thighs before he had a conscious enough thought to stop.

With their hands joined, and his magic aching for her, Feyre understood that the strange intangible wisps were of her own magic licking the edges of his. Her own heat built up inside of her body, reaching out to touch his and creating that demanding… something that had existed earlier in the day. He was as stiff in his pants as he had been then, and she as warm and wet.

She didn’t struggle in the least as he led her to a shaded tree and pulled her close to him again. Her spine curved for him, giving him a nice hollow where he could rest his hand and keep her close, while his forearm balanced him against the tree beside her head.

He didn’t waste time with words.

Her lips were soft, and full, and as hungry as he imagined they would be. There was no tentative shyness in kissing Feyre. There was no hesitation. Their mouths slid against one another, and lips parted so tongues could dance. The taste of her was complex – cinders and sunshine and apple skins and earthly herbs.

Rhysand clutched her closer, feeling her hands slide up his chest, round his neck, and slide into his hair. She grabbed fistfuls, her nails gently scratching his scalp as her hands wound their way in.

And then her mind reached out towards him.

Her mind had always seemed like a smooth glass bubble to him; smooth and delicate and easily breakable. But as she reached for him, her mind gently cracking open enough that he could push the boundaries and enter – he realized it was a labyrinth. He got a sense of enormity, dark shadows and locked rooms and areas leading to nowhere. Rhysand had never touched anything like it, but he knew it wasn’t a human mind.

But then her tongue wrapped around his own, leading it into her mouth so she could suck on his tongue.

All thoughts fled. He surged into her mind, getting trapped somehow by her own mental strength, as his hands grabbed for fistfuls of her dress. He just needed to touch skin, to feel the round muscles of her thighs in his hands. Her hips titled to accommodate him, and he brought his thigh to the soft, hot center of her while her breath hitched.

Rhysand wanted her. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything in his life. It was almost painful, but in a delicious way, curling around his heart and pressurizing his chest, sending a sweet, blissful tingle across his body where she touched him.

* * *

Feyre

She was burning. Swimming in pure fire and sensation as his hands ran across her skin and his mind lapped itself against her.

This man wanted her. No, he needed her.

It wasn’t just pleasure and wanting, though there was enough of that to nearly overwhelm her. There was longing, too. And loneliness. Like a void crying to be filled, she felt that space inside of him fit her perfectly, and it sang from the pleasure of having her there. So it became more than just the sweet, intoxicating desire they shared - it was deeper. More fulfilling than anything -

His hand gripped her thigh with a bit more intent, fingers digging into her skin as he tried to hook her leg around his slowly thrusting hips -

_ Want to be inside of you. Want to have you _ -

In public. In a park.

She pulled her lips away.  _ Rhys - _

He stopped immediately, his lips lingering on her with a gentle pressure as his hand let her thigh go.  _ No _ , he agreed.  _ But soon, Feyre darling _ .

_ Soon. _

She shivered as his lips left hers, but he didn’t leave the circle of her arms or push her away. Instead, his hand slid up her back and grabbed the base of her head, gently guiding her towards the connection of his neck and shoulder. She felt the heaves of his breath, and the hardness of him pressing against her belly.

Soon.

* * *

Isaac Hale

In the shadowed grove across the river, he watched the passionate kiss.

“You see how she wantonly displays herself? Would the Feyre you know do that? He uses his magic to force her mind to his will. She is his puppet. He has taken your bride and made her his whore.”

Isaac sneered at the soft words pressed into his ear. It didn’t matter that what he saw was  _ just _ like the Feyre he knew. In his bed, she had splayed herself naked without shame or fear, and when his own hand wasn’t good enough, she’d slapped it away to replace it with her own. He had never made her  _ melt _ like she was now.

“Demon-souled sorcerer.” Isaac agreed. “He’s got her so besotted, she’ll do anything he asks with her power.”

“Her power?” Ianthe asked.

“She heals with a touch, finds things that are lost without thinking about it. And I’ve seen her…” He broke off, just now aware that he was sharing secrets with a stranger who could use the information for her own gain. Even if he could get her away from the King of the Fae, he didn’t need to fight for Feyre with Ianthe, too. “Nevermind.” He shot the woman a distrustful glare. 

“Nevermind.” Ianthe repeated, her voice soft. “Come on, Isaac. There is much to be done to get you your bride back.”

With one last look at the couple kissing underneath the tree, Isaac followed the woman deeper into the shadowed grove.

* * *

Isaac smiled as he watched little, gangly-limbed Tommy Sorris scribble the last of his notes on the paper. “You have it all, then?” He asked. He knew Tommy had written  _ something _ down. For a printer’s son, the boy had terrible handwriting.

“I do. I do.” Tommy stuck his tongue out between his lips before shuffling the papers up and shoving them in a leather folder, then into his satchel. “Thanks again for the story, Isaac. It’s a beaut, really.”

“No problem at all, Tommy. And give your Da my best. And that one paragraph I gave you - please, make you it’s down word for word.”

Who would have guessed a barmaid had a knack for magic? Ianthe had promised him those specific words would sway simple minds.

Already, Isaac had given the words to half a dozen pamphleteers and newspapers.

“I will, I will.” The boy said, finishing the last of his well-watered ale as he stood. “Exactly as it’s written. Like I said, takes less time that way.”

“And don’t go using my name.” Isaac reminded him. “I don’t want my Da to get in trouble with the Queens after everything that happened in court. I just want justice to be done for my Feyre. She was sold out, she was sold out to a monstrous sorcerer for a chest of magic-cursed gold. But my Da, he needs that gold.”

“Ooohh - that’s good, that’s mighty good.” Tommy put his satchel back onto the table. Though taking out the pot of ink, the quill, the paper, the blotter, and the leather folder was a long and lengthy process – yet Tommy managed to do it quickly. Perhaps that’s why his handwriting was so bad.

Tommy had it all shoved back into his satchel in no time.

“But, you know.” Tommy looked up as he looped the satchel around his head. “Everybody knows Feyre is fond of the Fae. That King in particular. Maybe she’s happy to be with the lout.”

Isaac fought back his irritation. “She’s been ensorcelled. Her whole family has. And it’s up to us - the plain folk like you and me, Tommy - to save them.”

Tommy shrugged. “I’m not gunna say I’m not gunna print it, Isaac. It’s a good story. Just don’t try telling me the motive is golden.” He headed out then and Isaac finished his own ale before getting up and walking the two miles towards the slums, where the Brethren of Radiance tended to the poor and godless of Celieria City. They would have set up their mission closer to the Church of Light, but they were a zealous group of priests, more militant in their hatred for all magics than the Church could rightly support – considering their tenuous alliances with magically inclined countries.

As he walked, Isaac rubbed the gentle pressure in his chest that never failed to make him feel strong – but also sleepy. Ianthe had done it. Said it would bind their mission together so they couldn’t betray one another, and he hadn’t minded the effects. Just sometimes, it felt… almost wrong.

But the feeling left as soon as he took three steps forward, joining the roadway towards the slums.

* * *

Ianthe

She had just enough time to see to her task before going to Hybern to meet with her Mistress.

Ianthe approached the small, tidy home near the riverfront. She drew upon the souls she had recently acquired – whores, orphans, beggars, a well placed courtier or two – and worked it till it burned at her skin and flushed open all her pores. Only when it was suitable, and she had double checked the spell, did she send her magic towards the house.

Inside, there was a quick start of fear. Then a pointless struggle. And then, the satisfying give.

Once he felt it, Ianthe opened the front gate and walked the gravel path towards the door. But before she even reached it, the lock was thrown, and the door was swinging inward.

Tuelis Sebarre closed it behind her, then threw the lock. Ianthe was left with her and two small children with dowdy blond heads who played by the hearth.

One - the girl - looked up and frowned at her.

Just as a woman entered the room. She was wiping her hands on her apron. She was a beautiful woman, with clear skin, deep blue eyes, and a sweet, strong soul that would produce a lot of magic. Ianthe had heard from the boy he’d contracted to follow her that Selianne was attractive - but this, this was just too good. Once Ianthe had her, she would delight in owning Selianne in every way imaginable, using her for one gain or another.

“Mama?” Selianne paused in the main room. “Who’s at the door?”

“My dear Selianne. Your mother has told me much about you.” Ianthe said.

She blinked her big, blue eyes. “Ah… yes… I’m sorry,” Her eyes moved to her mother, then back to Ianthe. “I don’t believe I have your name…”

“Ianthe.”

“A pleasure to be at your service, Mistress Ianthe.”

Ianthe smiled at her. “Oh yes, it will be.”

* * *

High Mage

Amarantha recorded the details of her latest experiment in her newest journal. Her experiments were going well, but not as well as she would have hoped. The search for the girl was becoming more and more desperate.

A knock took Amarantha away from her data. “Enter,” She called, looking up as her apprentice entered. Ianthe was young, ambitious, and powerful, having risen in the ranks to High Priestess - the equivalent of a journeyman - within a few short years. Which is why Ianthe had gained her current mission in Celieria, a position coveted even by the most experienced, fully ranked mages of the Order.

“Well?” Amarantha asked, reaching beside her to the sand so she could sprinkle it on the pages of her journal. She set her quill back into the holder beside her inkpot.

Ianthe bowed deeply before the desk, the upper part of her face hidden beneath her cowl. “I’m almost certain it is she, Mistress.” Ianthe said. “The one who was lost. She was found abandoned at the right time, and was of the the right age, in the forests of Norban. She didn’t know the Celierian human tongue. There are rumors that she is demon-cursed, and there are few who have seen evidence of her magic. Healing, finding lost things, perhaps more.”

Which meant Amarantha’s pets had deceived her.

They would suffer for it. Though they were fragile after the last bit of torture. Amarantha knew more than anyone that keeping them alive but broken was a very fine line. Maybe this time she wouldn’t torture them through violent means, but with the love they had for each other. She would think of something suitable, some twist to add to their fates.

She rubbed Jurian’s eye, watched it as it rotated, flinging itself between Amaranthe and Ianthe. She had spelled it so he was aware, at least in part, of what was being said. The best thing about tying his soul to his right eye was the necessity of twisting his soul into a mage’s soul. Now  _ that _ had been a fantastic bit of torture, one that kept going as the eons passed.

As she rubbed the ring, the eye flickered, pupils expanding. She could almost pretend to see the hatred there in the simple brown depths.

“If her magic was substantial,” Amaranthe said, “I would have detected it before now. She must be powerful to be of any use.” She grabbed his journal and slammed the bottom against the wood of her desk, watching the sand fall and puddle into a curved line before her. Some bits stuck to the ink on the pages, and she dusted it away with her hand before closing the book.

“Does her power truly matter, Mistress?” Ianthe asked. “She is the mate of the Cauldron Born. Isn’t that enough? Through her - you can destroy him and the entire race.”

Amarantha scoffed. This is why she didn’t consult with anyone. “They are not fully bonded yet, I wouldn’t be able to dream-scape with her if they were. So he will not die if I have her.” And Amarantha refused to be as foolish as her predecessor, who had single handedly decided to incur the wrath of the Cauldron Born by killing his whore. Amarantha would be smarter than that. She had to be. “I need proof of her magic.”

She considered the matter at hand before standing. Her bones creaked, but she hid the pain of it as she walked to the small bookshelf at the side of his office and placed her newest journal along the line of all the others. Hundreds of years of experimentation. Data upon data. She was so close to her goal, she could almost taste it.

All he needed was the girl.

“Test her magic. She must have a master’s strength for me to fight with the Cauldron Born. And bring me back some of her blood. She hides too well - and it’s time she and I were properly reacquainted.”

“She is guarded around the clock.” Ianthe said.

Amarantha turned slowly. She looked at Ianthe bowing before the desk. So young, so ambitious. “Is that an excuse I hear, High Priestess?”

Ianthe did not flinch like so many others. “I will not fail you, Mistress.” She bowed more deeply, nearly prostrating herself over the ground before Amarantha’s feet.

“To Hybern we praise.”

“May our bones raise Him up.” Ianthe quickly made her exit. Amarantha stood for a while, feeling the ache in her joints – her knees in particular – as she stood looking over her work.

She needed the girl. Had to have her.

And soon, before time ran out. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, you know at the end of every Dragon Ball Z episode, they have that running commentary?  
> well....  
> *in deep voice*  
> What does Amarantha want with Feyre, and why is she so determined to have her? Will she get her clutches on Feyre before she and Rhysand can get to bone-town? The answers to these burning questions will so be revealed, and Feyre will learn the secrets of her past, on the next chapter of, THE MAD KINGS SOUULLLLLL.


	9. Wax Dolls and Broken Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited by runningwater

Queen Annoura 

The paper trembled in her hands, but she knew the print well enough without seeing them.  _ Mad King steals local man’s bride! Queens cower in fear! Read the shocking truth they don’t want you to know! _

Annoura turned to Lady Jiarine. It was she who’d given her this morning’s papers. “There are many of these, you say?” She asked.

Jiarine nodded. The long, dark curls that dropped over her shoulder bounced with the motion. “Many times many, Majesty. The presses must have been running all night. And every press, it seems.”

Annoura turned away from the woman before the girl could see the scorn in her gaze.

“My Queen… you cannot mean to ignore this. The pamphleteers have always been a thorn in the palace’s heel, but this time… Majesty, those leaflets border on treason! They call you a puppet of the fae, and you a—”

“I can read for myself, Jiarine.” Annoura snapped, her voice as cold and hard as marble in the snow. “You need not repeat it to me.”

“My apologies, Majesty.” The woman bobbed a curtsey. “It’s just… people are already nervous because of the  _ dahl’reisen _ murdering innocents in the North. And now  _ the _ Mad King had returned to our city for the first time since he slaughtered us. And he did it while making a fool of this court and threatening war… suspicions and fears are rising on many estates. The Lords of the Council are worried. Especially now that you are trying to stop the prosperous trade agreement with the North.”

Annoura hadn’t known that Demetra’s efforts had spread to even the ladyies-in-waiting. “I understand your concerns, Lady, but I assure you, the other Queens and I are intimately familiar with the state of our kingdom and do not need your commentary on the matter.”

Still, Jiarine was a simple headed fool. She went on. “There’s even a growing number of historians who are beginning to question whether the Hybern Mages were really behind the assassination that started the Magic Wars.” She said. “I know we’ve all been raised to believe that was true—but what if it’s not? What if we are ruining a good, prosperous trade agreement to saddle ourselves with a militant tyrant?”

Annoura could remember the Steward mentioned some study in one of his reports a half year or so back, but at the time, she’d dismissed it as nothing more than the scholarly pursuits of men who inhaled too much book glue and moldy parchment dust. She still didn’t put much stock in the idea. Who else would have killed the Fae Celierian Queen?

And yet - scholars were useful. Their intellectual passion could serve to discredit political rivals - especially ones seen as a brutish barbarian like Rhysand had proved himself to be in court. She would have to go and talk with these scholars, and see what she could do before the upcoming ball.

But before she did that, she had to deal with these pamphlets. Annoura was no puppet.

“Thank you, Lady Jiarine.” She said. “That will be all.” When Jarine opened her mouth to protest, Annoura said, “You are excused, Jiarine.”

Once Annoura was alone, she walked to a different door and then through a series of connected rooms that made up the Royal Suite till she was in Lysandra’s private office. She was seated at her desk, a pair of spectacles on her nose as she poured over this morning documents and  _ kofi _ . As always, the Steward was by her side, as well as some advisors.

“Everyone, please, make your leave. Immediately.” She said. As soon as they left Lysandra’s office, she slammed the pamphlets onto her desk to fully grab her attention. “Have you seen these, then?”

Lysandra didn’t even glance at the pamphlets, but leaned back in her seat, her fingers crossing over her taut stomach. As always, the young Queen had a strange habit of wearing men’s clothing when she wasn’t presenting in court. Annoura had argued it many times, but Lysandra was hard to bend. Especially when it came to her own comfort as she saw to the more tedious aspects of the Kingdom. “Corras showed them to me, yes.”

And she’d said nothing to Annoura about it?

Annoura narrowed her eyes. Ever since they got rid of Vassa - selling the arrogant little shit to some human Sorcerer who thought he could perform magic without burning through his soul – Lysandra had gotten rather arrogant herself. “What are you going to do about them, Lysandra?”

“Me?” She arched a black eyebrow, her unlined face showing just a hint of collected, cunning amusement. “Am I so powerful that you need  _ my _ advice, Annoura?”

Annoura didn’t try to hold in her temper. With as much force as she could muster, she slapped the girl’s face. Her spectacles flew off into the room as her cheek grew red. “Don’t give me that tone, girl. I could have you kicked off the seat – ”

“- as fast as you took away my mother’s crown.” Lysandra sighed heavily, before getting out of her chair to grab her spectacles. “That’s all well and fine, Annoura. But I’m not sure what you think I can do. You know as well as I do that once a story starts circulating, any attempt to shut it down only causes more fuss. Short of martial law, I can’t control what the people do or say. I can only go on as I have been, doing my best to keep this country strong.”

Lysandra didn’t understand. She was too young, too arrogant. The problem with people spreading rumors was the lack of control in how those rumors evolved. 

Annoura found herself going back on Jiarana’s argument. “First with the  _ dahl’reisen _ , then the Mad King showing up and ordering us about in our own court of law. And now that he’s starting unfounded tales about Mage power growing in Hybern –”

“Oh, so you’ve heard about Demetra’s little campaign, then.” Lysandra leaned against the window. Her rooms had a direct view to the pleasure gardens, and her eyes tracked the people in them, her red cheek facing Annoura. She was a hard one to read, but Annoura had the distinct impression that the younger Queen was amused.

“I have.” Annoura muttered. “Nearly a half decade of work and dignitaries and planning – wasted! Because of what? The Mad King’s insane hatred for the Hybern?”

Lysandra’s lips curled up, and her eyes seemed to catch on something down in the gardens. “Imagine what he would do if he knew we’ve been dabbling in soul-magic, eh?”

Annoura didn’t want to imagine. She didn’t even want to entertain the thought. Though they were powerful in their own right, their power was the stuff of government – intangible and moneyed and full of loopholes and corrections. It wasn’t true power like magic was, unlimited and awe inspiring.

Annoura could destroy a man’s life. She couldn’t destroy an entire country.

And she wanted that power. She needed it. Hybern offered it. Already her lessons were going well, and she was second to none in the lessons the Hybern Priestess had been giving them. Soon, she’d be able to start binding other people’s souls to her, to fuel her potential.

That couldn’t happen if the trade agreements stopped. “We have to end Demetra’s campaign before it begins.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Annoura fumed. She put her hands on her hips, feeling the sway of her heavy skirts, feeling the pressing of her many bejeweled rings. “What do you mean by ‘perhaps’.”

“I mean we gave Vassa over to that Mage –”

“Sorcerer.” Annoura corrected. Lysandra would know that if she paid attention to the magic lessons. There was a difference in magical-fuel when it came to titles.

“Fine.” Lysandra shot her a sharp look. “We gave Vassa over to him for a reason. Not just because she was causing trouble, but because the  _ sorcerer _ has ideas on a new kind of human magic. The reports Samara is getting are promising. If we end the agreement with Hybern, we won’t lose magic.”

No, they would lose magic. Annoura would lose magic. Because she already was three fourths burned through her soul and addicted to the rush.

She shook her head. “It’s impossible. We must continue our agreement with Hybern.”

“I thought you would say that.” Lysandra looked back out the window. “But what if the Mad King is right, Annoura? What if the Mages are gaining power again, like they did in the old days? It’s much different having a few wandering about, and another for them to take over the country like they did before the Magic Wars.” She gave Annoura a pointed look. “What if they managed to summon their God?”

Annoura hadn’t known Lysandra believed in the old children’s tales. “A God, really? And besides, to make a God you need the Cauldron, and the Fae guard it too much.” She’d heard of tales of the Soul Eater, the God Hybern Mages worshiped, but they were just that, tales. Ones that originated in the dawn of the world, when Fae and Elves were allies.

Lysandra said nothing but continued to stare out of the window towards the pleasure gardens.

She was Annoura’s grand-daughter’s age, and Annoura had seen from the very beginning that Lysandra was special. Walking around the nursery as a toddler, she was the only quiet one, observant, cool-headed. Annoura took her from the nannies and raised her as her own, forgoing every one of her own children outside of her heir to make sure the little thing became the kind of Queen Annoura needed her to be.

But Lysandra kept her own council too much.

“You need to protect our interests, Lysandra.”

Lysandra nodded, then moved away from the window. She sat in her chair behind the desk and grabbed her quill. Without looking up, she said, “That is precisely what I am doing, Annoura. If you would please take your leave, I need quiet.” 

She watched Lysandra, a little stunned that she was being dismissed. On the desk, the pamphlets she’d put down mocked her – the puppet queen.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Annoura turned and walked back to her rooms.

She would not be made the fool. She would not be mocked or dismissed - not by pamphleteers, not by the common rabble who had gobbled up the insulting leaflets, not by Lysandra, and especially not by the Fae or some merchant’s slut daughter.

She was Annoura, Queen of Celieria.

If Lysandra refused to stand up to the Mad King, she would do it herself. As long as she had breath in her body, the near-immortal invaders would not usurp the power of Celieria’s throne or force their will upon Celiera’s people without a fight.

And one way or another, she would put that upstart peasant Feyre Archeron in her place.

* * *

Ianthe

Ianthe moved through the streets of West End. The closer she got to the Archeron’s home, the thicker the loitering masses in the streets, eager to catch glimpses of the fae party and the mysterious mate. Which made it very easy for her to get close to the building itself.

Her Mistress wanted her to test Feyre’s magic. And she would find a way to do just that.

Instead of sleeping or resting last night, Ianthe had poured over grimoire after grimoire of charms and spells in the High Mage’s private library. And the more she learned, the trickier things got. There were many different spells that could force a response of latent or protected magic - but few could do so while penetrating fae protective magic - and fewer still could remain undetected by those protecting Fae.

Luckily, her Mistress had a very extensive library. And Amarantha tested each spell thoroughly on her pets, fine tuning each one to absolute perfection.

Ianthe stopped before a food cart seller who’d capitalized on the crowd. Turning so it looked like she was in line, she reached into the pocket of her simple home-spun dress to grab the small wax talis she’d made last night Under the Mountain in Hybern. She fingered the smooth, gently melting surface, glad to feel that almost all of the wax had melted over the bright strands of blond-brown hair Isaac had managed to produce from Feyre Archeron’s head. Apparently the girl shed quite a lot. And when the mother went to the Hale’s butcher shop to get the meal’s meat, three perfect, overly long stands had been on her back and shoulders. Perfect material for a simple emotional amplification spell.

She was sure that heightened emotions would produce a magical response. It took extensive training to stop the natural instinct. Training Feyre Archeron would not have had.

Rubbing more of the wax, so it coated with the oil of her fingers and melted even more, Ianthe began to chant.

* * *

Feyre

If one more person made a remark about the “humble coziness” of her family’s home - Feyre wasn’t going to be responsible for what happened.

It had started out as a rather good day, too. Despite vague memories of disturbing nightmares, she’d woken up relatively rested and without a scratch or ache. Rhysand’s courtship gift - a bag of Stones, hand painted to have a cartoonish scowl on one side, and a kissing couple on the other – had been a pleasant surprise. She got to make breakfast too, so the morning’s porridge had been spicy, not overly salted or sweet. And Cassian said she was improving on her Faeish, though her accent was apparently still strong.

But her good morning was over now. And all she wanted to do was scream.

_ Dark Lord take this whole exhausting, frustrating, sanity-scorching wedding and burn it to the ground _ , she cursed, casting a glare at the frenzied mob of seamstresses, florists, caterers, printers, decorators, wine merchants, cobblers, and stuffy wedding planners that surrounded her. They’d all descended upon her after breakfast, turning the “humble coziness” of her home into a warzone of feminine apparel. And even more were coming. Every half hour, there would be a knock and Lauriana would rush to the door to invite more people in. Courtiers bearing packages that sat untouched in the corner, friends wanting to extend their congratulations and ogle, neighbors just being nosy, merchants trying to offer their wares, craftsmen trying to not only compete with the Queen’s chosen masters - but steal a few techniques as well.

And every single one of them thought that instead of waiting to be heard, they must scream over each other.

And the gowns! Oh, Feyre was sick of the gowns. Lady Marissya had decided that twenty was a respectable number to start out with. Twenty! And each one had a different design by a different clothier, so each one had to be fit to her at different times. The wedding gown was the worst of it, requiring a cartload of different fabric and a good portion of Feyre’s life just to be pinned, adjusted, reset, and repinned.

“My lady, please, stand still.” The seamstress assistant blew some hair out of her eyes and attempted - and failed - to sound polite as she tried again to fix the hemming at Feyre’s feet.

“I am still,” Feyre snapped back.

The woman shrugged, resumed her work, and stabbed the top of Feyre’s foot with a pin.

Feyre resisted the urge to lift up her leg and kick the woman in the forehead.

An awful pressure had begun squeezing her head. It had built up some time ago, an hour ago maybe, but now it was a tightening vise around her skull. The voices around her were merciless to it, the din of a few dozen people in a tight space making the throb match every high-pitched laugh or frustrated argument. And it didn’t help that every single last one of the visitors wore enough perfume to burn her nose. And that this seamstress at her feet had poked her again! Feyre flinched, which caused a chain reaction of flinches that caused more needles to poke her skin. The woman at her left shoulder made an exasperated mumble as blood ruined yet another sleeve - and she ripped the entire thing off Feyre’s body, causing more pricks.

Somehow, Cassian’s deep voice caught her attention as he said, “Peace, Feyre.” Maybe because he said it in the Fae language, the melodious words pouring over the cacophony around them.

Peace? Peace! He wanted peace?

Feyre looked over her shoulder at the man. He was standing against the wall, looking very nervous when someone so much as came close to the wings he had pinned tight to his back. As they met eyes, he blinked, one rough hewn eyebrow arching. “Maybe we should start our fighting lessons soon.”

The only reason why she didn’t get off the stool and march right over to him was because he had said it in Faeish. It would be absolutely disastrous if anyone knew -

“Feyre,” Lauriana shuffled over with a selection of flowers in her hand, her gaze on the different bouquets of them. “For your bridal wreath, which roses do you prefer? Maiden’s Blush, Sweet Kaidra, or Gentle Dawn?” She held up each bloom as she said the names - one a faint pink, another a creamy ivory, and a pale yellow with a vibrant display of orange on the outer edge.

“I don’t care, Mama.” Feyre said. “Your choice.”

Lauriana looked up, blinking. “Watch your tone, girl. I won’t have you speaking to me like that.”

Feyre inhaled deeply, and the only reason why she didn’t continue with her ‘tone’ was because Rhysand was suddenly there, having managed to get through the throng. His large body pushed away many of the seamstresses, which was the only reason why she tolerated his presence at the moment. All of this was his fault. His insufferable deadline had turned what should be a normal wedding into a race.

Her mother continued on, “Well, I like Maiden’s Blush. But the pink might clash with the place settings. Sweet Kaidra is lovely, of course, but too much white and things get a bit dull. Gentle Dawn… well, there’s something about the mix of colors that I’ve always liked. And the orange suits you. Come now, dear, give me your honest opinion. This is your wedding. And we’ll need to match this with the underlayer of your wedding gown, anyway.”

“I thought we’d already decided the underlayer would be white!” She’d stood here for a full hour getting that thing fitted.

Lauriana’s eyes snapped up from her flowers. Her tone was soft, but serious, a clear warning that she would not repeat herself about ‘tones’ without a serious fallout. “Yes, but I was talking to one of the advisors who suggested that we add a splash of color to you. You in white is not a good color. And neither is that look on your face.”

Feyre didn’t know what look was on her face, but she could feel the tension of her muscles. The space between her eyebrows ached as bad as her temples, and her jaw had been locked for so long her teeth hurt.

“I. Do. Not. Care.” Feyre said, in the sweetest, more sugared tone she could manage.

Lauriana’s spine stiffened. “We will talk about this later.” And then she stalked away.

The pain in Feyre’s head increased as her anger did. Her mother had no right to be upset.

_ Darling _ .

She ignored Rhysand. She was mad at him, too. For not loving her like he did a ghost. For making her go through this entire ordeal. She had never wanted an extravagant wedding in the first place. Flowers, perhaps, but wild ones picked up in a meadow, not store-bought and cultivated for maximum color and smell. And she hadn’t wanted a priest – they terrified her – much less the Archbishop himself. And the Queens would be there!

All those eyes on her. Watching her. Studying her. Would she slip up? Would the madness show? Would everyone see how she was demon cursed?

Would Rhysand reject her?

The thought of him doing that after all of this pandering and getting picked over by pins and forced into decisions made the pain in her head increase.

_ Feyre! _ Rhysand’s voice sounded in her head again, a bit more insistent this time. She shoved him out with a sharp mental shove.

“Mistress Archeron?” A man’s voice penetrated through the fog in her head, and she turned to look down at him.

“What?”

The cobbler held up several pairs of shoes - all the left foot. “You’ve selected your footwear for the wedding, but you still need to select slippers for your ball gowns and a pair of boots for your day dresses. Something - if I may be so bold as to suggest - a bit more… elegant than your current footwear?”

“And what-” Feyre hissed. “Is wrong with my current footwear?” She liked her boots. Her boots fit. They were well worn enough that they never pinched her toes or rubbed the calluses of her feet wrong.

“Nothing, Mistress Archeron.” He gave a small, condescending bow. “But I’m referring to the new you. Which will require a bit more, shall we say, elegance.”

She ripped her hip out of the grasp of some seamstress or seamstress’s apprentice. Fabric ripped and a frustrated groan sounded. Her ankle was pricked as she moved to turn, a deliberate enough feeling that Feyre took the time to glare down at the girl before focusing again on the cobbler. “There is no  _ new _ me. I am the same me that I have always been! I will be the same me tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that!”

“My lady, please, stand still just a few more minutes.” A woman pleaded.

“I am standing still!” She bit out.

_ Feyre, speak to me. What’s wrong? _

Rhysand wanted her to speak to him? Oh—she would speak.

_ GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD! _ She felt his startled burst of pain as her response was blasted between them - and she had the oddest sensation of it overwhelming the small mental path between them.

And then all the windows burst open. Shards of glass flew everywhere.

And over the roaring confusion was Rhysand’s furious roar, which vibrated inside her sternum and made her ears ring. Dizziness followed, and the oddest sense of perfect relief as Rhysand surged between women and hugged her tightly to his chest.

“Get back!” He roared. Of course, most people were actively trying to get  _ away _ . Only none of them seemed to know where to get away from. The people near the windows were trying to get away from the windows - the people near Cassian and Lucien were trying to get away from them, and those few unlucky people near Rhysand and her were trampling over themselves to get away from him. Which caused a strange mass of humanity and shrieking.

But in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre felt fine. Better than fine. She had the perfect, singular feeling she got when she’d finally gotten over a bad cold - and had learned to appreciate the feeling of health all over again. The pain in her head was gone. The fury was gone.

She leaned against his chest and breathed in his scent.

* * *

Rhysand

“I’m sorry I got so pissy.” Feyre said, for maybe the hundredth time. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually like that.”

“It’s been a stressful day, Darling.” Rhysand said. Cassian had noticed the oddities in her mood - and had sent out a short burst of magic – a signal that Rhysand hadn’t used since their days in the training camp – to pull him away from his meeting with Demetra and Azriel. They were sure that one of the other Queens, Lysandra, was on their side, but there was something off about the girl.

But despite it all, and the pressing need to end the Hybern trade agreement, he was glad Cassian had called for him. Rhysand’s furious, fierce little mate had turned into a mewling kitten since her explosion of magic, and she lay against his chest now, the mate-bond between them open and singing.

After he was sure that the magical blast had come from her, he’d grabbed her and rushed her up the stairs and away from the human throng. Her bed was narrow and too short for him, and it had nearly collapsed at the combination of their weight - but it felt good to lay upon it and have her lay on him. As the humans were ushered out of the Archeron home, and Lauriana subjected her ire to Cassian - Rhysand spent the time tending to his mate. He smoothed the hair from her face, and rubbed her back, and enjoyed the way she breathed atop him.

“I didn’t mean to yell at you.” She told him. Little puffs of her breath tickled the side of his neck, before she nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. It caused her body to sway atop his, hips aligning.

“It’s fine.” It was fine now, at least. The force of her anger had been painful. He wouldn’t want to feel her shoving him out of the strange outer layer of her labyrinth like mind again – but if anyone could understand irrational anger, it was him.

“They’re gone now.” He assured her. “They’ll only come by appointment, and I will be with you when they come.”

Her body moved as she huffed a warm breath into his neck. Her hand trailed up his chest, fingers splaying, till she could warp her warm palm around the other side of him. His own hand continued to thread through her hair and trail down it, fingertips brushing against the curves of her while he held the back of her thigh to keep it from falling off the narrow bed.

“So you can explode all the windows again if I get too upset?” She teased. “Maybe we’d better not have them come to the house at all.”

Confused, Rhysand brushed his chin against her forehead. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?” She lifted up her head just enough to look at him. This close up, she filled his senses. The strange smell of her, the hypnotic two tone of her eyes and hair. The exotic, intoxicatingly strong combination of her features. He couldn’t call her beautiful, and yet, that’s what she was – like a painting he couldn’t stop looking at, finding new angles and pieces and shadows and light with every new glance.

When he was a child, and he daydreamed of what it would be like to have a mate, he would have never pictured Feyre. And yet now, she was all he could think of when he thought of a partner, a friend, a mate, a lover. Someone wild, yet domesticated. Someone protective, yet forgiving. Someone would fought, yet knew when to lay down their arms.

Dark. Yet light.

He grabbed a bit of her hair so it could dangle off her shoulder and shrowd him in fragrant light. “Is it really that bad to do it somewhere else?” She asked.

“No, I mean about the windows. I wasn’t the one who destroyed the windows, Feyre.”

Her head moved, more hair cascading around his face and tickling his chin. He was sure that even in the midst of winter he would feel warmer for having smelled her hot, cinder-and-spice like scent.

“So, Cas then?” She asked.

“No.” She had to be playing a joke on him. Teasing him in some way. There was no way anyone could release that much energy and not be aware of it. “It wasn’t me. Or Cas. Or any Fae.” Because the more and more he learned of her, he was sure she wasn’t any more Fae than she was human. The magic that she had used had been like a concentrated burst of pure air, channeled to such a degree that it had become deadly. 

“Then…”

If she wanted him to brag about her, he would do it. “You have a master’s level power.” He reached up and touched the softness of her cheek with his thumb. Something about the velvet like texture against his callus made him ache. He wanted to press down harder - make an impression upon her skin. He wanted to treasure her so nothing hurt her, not even him and his possessiveness. “You managed to not only touch every single window in the entire house and shatter it, but to direct the shards on air currents so not a single person was harmed or cut.”

He realized she’d not been teasing him, fishing for compliments. Her entire body stiffened above his, and her tone, when she spoke, was soft and strained. “Rhysand - no, I...”

She tried to raise herself off him. Create more distance. But he couldn’t allow that, not here in bed. He couldn’t stand the idea of losing what they were building together. So he pressed his hand into the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him.

“It’s true.” He urged.

“No.”

Rhysand watched her. He could remember how uncomfortable she’d been when he’d first mentioned her magic. The soft, fake, doll-like smile she had used to deflect her potential.

This was the heart of it, her doubt, her lack of trust in him. If he wanted to get anywhere with her, if he had any hope that she would open her soul to him, he had to start here. With who she was.

“You’ve got a great amount of power, Feyre. You should be overjoyed.”

“No. No.” She rose onto her elbows to get further away from him.

She was terrified.

He brushed his thumb against her cheek again, his fingers entering her hair from the baseline of her skull so he could casually wrap her jaw in his hand. She responded to it easily, despite her fears, the small trembling in her muscles easing a bit. Still, her eyes stayed unfocused. And her breathing was the same shallow, aching pants that had started when he mentioned her magic.

Rhysand had admired her because there was nothing delicate or breakable about her. There was substance to her weight, a primal womanliness to her athletic curves and strength. Couple that with her pride and her inability to be intimidated - and he had begun to think of her as a force of nature. But maybe he was wrong to assume that. She was fragile. There was something inside of her that was one good knock away from falling down and ruining something inside of her.

He had a feeling that breakable thing was herself.

“Why?” He asked. “Why do you fear yourself?”

“Why do you keep insisting that I’ve got magic?” She challenged, her voice still strained.

Delicate situations called for tact. But it had been a long time since he’d needed to be cautious at all. He could remember sitting down with Ellysetta, and trying to confirm her fears that the small scale, bloody battles were indeed turning into a full scale Magic War. He had kept his words light. Helped her reach the conclusion she already knew. After, he had given her the space she’d always craved to lick her wounds alone.

He had a feeling that soft words weren’t what Feyre needed. That they would in fact just push her deeper into her denial.

Rhysand knew what would help him. Honesty tempered with passionate touch. To focus the emotions on something sweeter while the truth reached her. So Rhysand lifted his upper body up enough to kiss the sweet curve of her stubbornly tilted chin. His lips wrapped around it, tasting cinder and herbs, apple crisps and salt. He ran his teeth along the delicate skin, then licked away the small hurt.

She was respondent. So respondent. The steel in her arms loosened. Her thighs shifted to hug his sides more, her face angling as if to say - more, here.

“I’ve seen evidence of your magic several times now. One the day you called me from the sky, you used a  _ shei’dalin’s _ healing spell. You healed Cas’s soul. Today, you used pure magical force, not only at a demanti level, but in a surge, too.” He didn’t mention the nightmares, and how when she had them, her magic seemed to fill the entire house. Not yet, anyway. He had a feeling that if he acknowledged things she hadn’t shared with him personally, any trust would evaporate.

Keeping her from stiffening further, he wrapped his hands around her ribs, his thumbs teasing the heavy boundary where her breasts lay, making small, admiring circles up to their perky roundness while his lips kissed and sucked along her jaw. “And you make love, Darling-Feyre. Literal love.” His voice grew rough at the thought. He wanted her to use that unique, impossible magic for him. He wanted her to touch him with pure love. Surrounding him with her light.

“No.” Her voice was a little less strained, and a little more breathy. She shifted, her hips angling above his own as he grew circles closer and closer to her nipples. “You have to be mistaken - you have to be.”

“So eager to deny how special you are.” He deepened the pressure of his thumbs as he grew closer to the hard buds beneath her dress. “Do you share your mother’s fear of magic? You don’t seem to mind mine. Or Cas’s.” The only time she had reacted negatively to magic at all was when someone threatened to touch her mind with more than just a cursory brush. Or when her own magic was in question.

A small, aching sound escaped from her throat and had him throbbing between the legs. He barely had enough time to pinch her nipple before she was descending upon him with her hungry mouth, demanding entrance, demanding pleasure.

_ You can’t get away from this, darling. _ He told her, ignoring how her hands tightened into painful fists in his hair to get him to stop.  _ It’s dangerous to hold so much power inside of yourself with so little control. _ Yes, she had raw, natural talent to create strong power - but that made her all the more dangerous. Natural talent, strong power, and no knowledge of how to control it? She was a time bomb waiting to happen.

Feyre grabbed the link he’d used to speak with her mentally. Her power seemed to surround it effortlessly, invading his mind without actually going in deep - and there she placed an image. Of them, twined together. Her skin against his, the backs of her thighs on his chest, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, her head thrown back, and her fingers digging into his thighs—

The conversation was over.

Grabbing her, he held her tighter before lifting and rolling so she was pinned beneath him. The bed threatened to topple, a dangerous creak making him rise onto his knees. She used the opportunity to untangle her legs from him and part them before him. Her dress lifted with the action, smoothing down her toned legs and pooling in her lap, creating a tantalizing shadow between her spread legs.

“I know what you’re doing.” Not that he minded.

“Good. I was worried you were a blushing virgin.” She snapped, her hands coming up to grab for him.

He denied her pull to fall on top of her. Instead, he grabbed her calves, admiring the soft smoothness of her skin above well trained, curvy muscles. He followed the bent curve of her legs, the high roundness of the outside of her thigh, and lushness of her narrow hips. There, her dress was hiked up high, giving him a sight of gentle curls.

There wasn’t enough Cauldron-cursed room to lay down between her legs and devour her.

“Come on - come on.” She sat up, grabbing his shoulders. When it was obvious she couldn’t move him, she added a mental shove along with it, like sharp demand which pierced his mind and begged him to submit for the sake of their own pleasures.

He fell on top of her with enough force to make the bed screech again. And then it was all hungry mouths and hands. He aligned them better, so every rock of his hips hit the agonizingly hot, wet spot where he needed to be. A bit of magic and his clothes would be gone. He grabbed for the strands to start the act, which disintegrated as she wrapped her legs around his hips and joined his rocking. Barrier. Clothes. He had to get those off. But her nails were digging into his ass to spur him on, and her mouth was doing something wicked to his throat-

_ Rhys- _

Cas’s warning was only enough for Rhysand to look at the door as it opened. 

“What the fuck do you-” He snarled, but was quickly cut off by Feyre’s sharp:

“Mama!”

And yes, the figure in the doorway was indeed Lauriana Archeron. Her anger thrummed strongly enough that he felt some of the all-consuming pleasure disperse a bit. The bed was broken. Straw was everywhere. He’d cracked the wood on the wall above Feyre’s head when he’d stabilized himself.

“What do you two think you’re doing! You have yet to be wed!” Lauriana yelled. “Feyre Rose Archeron, you get downstairs this instant.”

Fucking cursed, loud furniture. Fucking Celierian rules and-

Below him, Feyre started to laugh. Which did not help him tame the raging ache of his cock at all, since her legs were still wrapped around him. He could feel every laugh at her core - which he was still aligned with - and feel the way her breasts touched his chest with every inhale.

“Feyre!” Lauriana snapped.

“Fine, fine, mama.” Feyre burst into another round of laughter, her legs fell from his hips.

Considering their position, he had to get off the damn bed first. The creaking was like a banshee’s scream, and the entire thing wobbled thanks to the missing footpeg and broken frame. He turned his back to Lauriana to provide some measure of modesty to Feyre - and to stare at her bare sex one last time - before shifting himself in his pants.

A small, gusty little bit of magic surrounded his shaft and squeezed, ruining any progress he’d made to tame it.

“Really?” He snarled.

“Soon.” With a wide, wicked grin she smoothed her skirts down and got off the bed, which screamed and toppled again as she rose to her feet.

Feyre started her laughter again as she passed her mother in the doorway. Rhysand followed, then focused on Cas in the living room as they got to the first floor.

_ I couldn’t hold her once you started killing the bed. _ Cas said, his laughter echoing through the mental link Rhysand created between them.

Cursed fucking beds. Her father was a damn merchant! He should have bought a sturdier bed.

Focusing a large spool of magic, he focused on the bed upstairs and made it disappear, shoving it off somewhere far away where he’d never have to think of it again. In it’s place, he created a bed that would be sex proof.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention this was a slow-burn? Maybe strangers-into-lovers is a better tag.  
> 


End file.
